


Vengeance

by catgirl26



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Action/Adventure, Ensemble Cast, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 53
Words: 362,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catgirl26/pseuds/catgirl26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Earth destroyed, Bulma and the Z gang find themselves in an outer space guerilla war against a tyrant. The mysterious Vengeance seems to be the only hope to win the war against Frieza, but teaming up with him brings its own set of problems.</p><p> </p><p>AU, ensemble cast but with focus on BV. Several other pairings (m/F and m/m) and non-romantic relationships get significant screen time.</p><p>While Vengeance often appears to be a light-hearted, funny story, there are darker elements running through several storylines. Warnings of non-con are for isolated incidents and don't reflect the story as a whole, but explicit descriptions of sex, violence, and general depravity are contained within these chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, there'd have been less bad hair. Yeah, I said it. Don't you pretend there wasn't a lot of bad hair.

Author's notes: So apparently I'm writing DBZ again…I've been away from this stuff for a while, so let's hope it works out :D This chapter is a prologue of sorts, I think. Future chapters will be significantly longer. Scout's honour.

PRESENT DAY

 

“Shit, Blue, they're coming. Shit, what do I do?”

“Calm down, don't panic.” Bulma said, trying to reassure the man on the other end of the radio. “You have the ghost loaded, right?” Silence. “Sable? SABLE! Do you hear me?” She cursed her inability to use his real name; she'd never before failed to get his attention by screeching his name at the top of her lungs, or by whispering it in his ear.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Thought I heard someone.” She could practically hear the nervous sweat running down his face as he willed the computer to finish processing. “Okay Blue, I'm into file 36 BAC but it's asking me for a code.” She rattled off a series of numbers, which he typed in, both sighing in relief as the computer chimed their success. One slip could trigger a security mechanism that would bring the whole army down on their asses. They'd already drawn enough suspicion by hacking into the network with Bulma's specially designed ghost drive.

“Now I need you to copy the files onto the ghost drive and secure it.” She heard him mutter his assent, already working to complete the task.

“Shit, it's going so slow.” The waiting was the worst; that few minutes of time that stretched for hours while that stupid blue bar crawled along, taking all the time in the world to finish the race. All the while, knowing that someone was coming to catch you, and if they found you, you were dead. Or worse. That's what made waiting so bad; thinking about `or worse.'

And then there was that moment of completion, and the short lived joy they shared before everything went to hell.

“Oh God.” Sable's voice came over the radio, more fearful than Bulma had ever heard him, which was saying a lot, considering what they'd been through. The quiet terror in those two words sent chills down her spine, and she froze in her seat. “It's you.”

“It is indeed.” Said a new voice, deep and raspy. Definitely male, though no one Bulma could place. She heard the quiet click of a door being closed. Whoever had entered wanted to keep this meeting private. The louder click of a gun being cocked - Sable's pistol; a relic he'd picked up at some interstellar flea market.

“Sable, what's going on?” she demanded, her voice hoarse with fear for her friend. “Sable!” She jumped from her chair, grabbing her microphone in one fist, as though it would convey her urgency to the man on the other end.

“My comrades will arrive soon.” The new voice rumbled, ignoring her completely. “I am sure you know what will happen if they find you here alive.” There was silence for a moment, in which she imagined two men staring at each other, as though whoever had the strongest glare would somehow be the victor, would somehow come out alive. Then, a resigned laugh from the voice she recognized. Bulma's heart dropped into her stomach.

“You sneaky fucking son of a bitch.” Sable breathed, sounding almost amused. “Gotta tell you, man, I never saw this coming.”

“Is that not the point?” That gravely voice asked, clearly impatient to have this conversation done with.

“Well done, I guess.” There was a short period of silence in which she imagined him smiling. That's when the tears began to well up in her eyes and she knew nothing would ever be the same again. “Take this,” Sable said to the stranger, “and get it back to Blue for me, will you?” Bulma heard a click and a beep from the computer. What the hell was he doing? Was that her ghost drive? “Well Blue,” he was too smart to use her real name, even in this moment, the last time he'd ever talk to her. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Sable, NO!” she cried, pounding on the desk, “Don't you dare!” No response. “SABLE!”

“I love you, Blue.” He said, and then she heard the sound that tore her heart right out of her chest. The bang of the pistol was deafening at such close range, and she screamed aloud, guilt and grief crashing through her like a tidal wave.

“Sable, no!” She screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Sable, Sable no.” She moaned, wiping snot and tears on her sleeve. “Oh, Yamcha, no.” She lay her head down on the desk in the silence that followed, tears pouring out of her as sobs wracked her frail body. She didn't look up as the others came in to see what the problem was; she couldn't bear to see their faces as they realized this new failure. A failure that cost them all a dear friend.

“Codename Sable is dead.” The voice said, ignoring her slip up, cool and callous like he hadn't just witnessed another man blow his own brains out. “I will be your new contact. More information will follow in three days' time.”

“Wait!” Krillin stammered, because Bulma, their Radio contact, was unable to. That was definitely a no-no, but it had to be done. “Who…who are you?”

There was a pause in which they all held their breath. It seemed as though the man on the other end was considering something. Perhaps he was so disgusted by their lack of proper protocol that he didn't even want to answer them. Lack of proper protocol could get you killed, in this risky game they all played. Finally, he drew breath. “You will call me Vengeance.” He stated.

The line went dead.

.  
.  
.

“There you are, Prince Vegeta,” Nappa grumbled, tapping at his scouter with frustration. “This damn thing is broken or something. It took more than five minutes to lock on to your ki signature, after you took off.” Then he noticed the blood spattered walls, and strode forward to see what his prince was standing over.

“Little shit offed himself before we got here.” Vegeta growled, giving the body a hard nudge with one gold-tipped boot. “Network's been hacked but there's nothing on him, and no clues as to what they were after. He must've had an accomplice; someone who's already escaped with whatever information they managed to pull.”

“Then why'd this guy stay behind?” Radditz asked, stepping into the room. Vegeta frowned, trying to wipe a bit of brain matter from his boot on the dead man's shirt. That question, he could not answer. Radditz had stopped paying attention, however, and was currently trying to deal with the child clinging to his leg.

“Whatsa matter, cub? Never seen a dead body before?” Nappa laughed, and the boy shook his head. Silly question. Of course he'd seen a dead body. He'd seen loads of dead bodies. Some of them, he'd even killed himself. What bothered him at that moment was that particular dead body.

“I think it's all the blood.” Radditz said, placing one large hand atop the boy's head. He ruffled the long, spiky black hair, so like his own, and smiled a wolfish grin that was terrifying to those who didn't know the Saiyan, and oddly endearing to those who did. The child swallowed and tried to look brave, tried not to let the tears flow. He didn't want to draw any attention to his predicament, didn't want to make them suspicious. Almost more important, even, was the fact that he didn't want to look weak in front of the prince.

Vegeta nodded his approval; the boy had come a long way from the snivelling mess they'd found a few years ago. He'd even begun to look more Saiyan, especially since they'd made him grow his hair out from that ridiculous cut he'd favoured. In fact, the resemblance between Radditz and the boy was uncanny, though that wasn't so surprising in itself. Radditz was Gohan's uncle, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don’t own /did not create DBZ or any of its characters. If I had, there’d have been a lot more sex. Dirty sex. Aww yeah, you know you like that.

Author’s note: I just wanted to say thanks for the warm welcome back to the fandom. I really appreciate it everyone!! Hopefully ‘Vengeance’ will live up to expectations.

Also, a note pertinent to the story: You’ll notice that I refer to Puar as a “he” even though Puar is commonly thought of as female. Truth be told, I tend to think of the cat as somewhat genderless, so I’m cool with either characterization, but in original Dragonball, Puar is indeed referred to as a male. So there we go, I guess. I’ll hear no complaints about it, unless they come accompanied by cookies. Then talk all you like :D

 

THREE YEARS EARLIER

 

“Bulma, I’m so, so sorry.” Chichi bowed low at the waist, prostrating herself before the other woman. “I don’t know where Goku and Gohan could be.” Her cheeks burned red with the shame of having such a disobedient family. “Goku _promised_ that they would be here on time. He _promised_ me.”

                Bulma laughed, glancing at her watch. Goku and Gohan were already almost an hour late. “Oh, Chi, I don’t know why you ever believe a word that man says.” She pulled her friend upright, failing to notice the dejection and disappointment behind the embarrassment and anger. “No need to bow, please,” she waved it off. “You and I both know that Goku is never on time!” As if on cue, Bulma’s cell phone rang. “Ten bucks says this is him.” She grinned, before flipping the little contraption open. “Yo, Bulma here!”

                “Hello Miss Briefs,” Gohan’s tiny, polite voice came through the line, and Bulma rolled her eyes. How many times had she told him to call her Bulma? Five years old and too polite for words. “Is my mother there?”

                “Yes, she’s right here Gohan.”

                “Is she mad?” He asked, and when she said ‘no’ she heard him repeating the answer to his father. Sure, it was a lie, but it was a lie that Goku deserved for bailing out on them like he was surely about to do. Sending in the kid to feel out the waters though, no one could say Son-kun was dumb! “Okay, put her on. My father needs to talk to her.”

                “It’s Goku.” Bulma smiled, handing Chichi the phone. She then tactfully turned away and started talking to Krillin and Yamcha, who in turn tactfully raised the volume of their conversation to quite ridiculous levels, so as not to overhear Chichi yelling at her wayward husband.

                “Fishing.” She muttered, snapping the phone shut with an angry click. Bulma winced, hoping that her friend hadn’t crushed the thing. Chichi often forgot how strong she really was. “Goku and Gohan have stopped to go fishing and they’re not coming.” Her face was red with anger, eyes sparkling with her rage. “Because they found a pond that’s just _perfect_ for _fishing_.” Her voice piqued and she sounded like the serial killer in a B-movie horror flick, explaining her twisted teen-angst motives for the bloodbath she’d perpetrated.

                “Chi,” Krillin started, stepping forward as small pebbles began to rise from the ground around where she stood. She cut him off with her next words.

                “FISHING!” She shrieked suddenly, crunching Bulma’s poor cellphone, completely unaware of the pieces falling to the ground. “Gohan has a chance to be part of Earth’s first-ever space launch and Goku drags him away to go FISHING! How irresponsible! How is Gohan going to learn about space now, hmm? How is he going to learn about rockets and gravity and the solar system now, HMM?” She demanded of her three friends, who shrugged in unison, each as unhelpful as the next. “That Goku, he doesn’t care about Gohan’s education! It’s always fishing or swimming or _fighting_!” She spat the last, as though it were the filthiest word she had ever heard, and a girl fighting in tournaments was subjected to a lot of filthy words. “Always goofing off! How is Gohan going to get into a good school now?”

                “I could always take him up later, Chi,” Bulma offered, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not like this is his last chance to go to outer space, you know.” That took some of the wind from Chichi’s sails. “Why, I’ll even let him help me build the next ship! Put that on his entrance forms and he’s sure to get into a great kindergarten!”

                Fully deflated now, Chichi nodded her thanks and smiled at her friend, though Bulma knew that the other woman was already worrying about how they would pay for THAT good a kindergarten. She smiled back, wondering how this paragon of responsibility had ever ended up with Goku. “Maybe you should go get yourself ready for takeoff.” Bulma suggested, urging Chichi on her way, before anything else could upset her volatile temper.

                “Well, whaddya know,” Krillin muttered under his breath, “opposites _do_ attract.” Bulma clamped her lips together, trying not to laugh; she’d just been thinking the exact same thing.

                “You know she’s good for him.” Yamcha grinned, finding the Son family’s antics an endless source of amusement. “Imagine! If she hadn’t married him, I bet Goku would be living in a tree in the woods right now, wearing a bear-skin loincloth.” The scarred warrior nodded sagely, before adding, “AND he’d probably still be a virgin!”

*

                In the end, Chichi had come along anyway, armed with pencil and paper so that she could make notes for Gohan, in his absence. Bulma had simply smiled and neglected to mention the fact that Chichi would hardly be able to write with the force of that many Gs bearing down on her during takeoff, or that she’d likely feel too sick to want to do anything after that.  After all, Bulma only planned to keep the ship in orbit for about an hour or so before returning planetside.  Capsule 1 needed extensive testing in Earth’s orbit before attempting interstellar travel.

                Bulma had invited the entire Z-team to accompany her on this first-ever venture into outer space, and she was glad to see that most of them had shown up. With the exception of Goku and Gohan, who had indeed RSVP’d in the positive, only Tien and Chauzu had declined her invitations. Although a truce had been called at the last Boudokai, apparently the two former assassins were still not comfortable in close quarters with her friends. Chauzu had at least made an effort to ease the sting of their refusals, joking that _someone_ had to remain behind to make sure Piccolo didn’t start any trouble. That green demon was still at large, somewhere in the world.

                So on that fine, sunny day, Bulma had led the way into Capsule 1, a huge, round, hulking structure, with everyone behind her oohing and aahing appropriately at the ship as they took their places. Dr. and Mrs. Briefs had the positions of honour on either side of the captain’s chair, and of course Bulma was obligated to fashion a special strap into her father’s chair for Kitty, that indolent, vacant little creature her father insisted on taking everywhere he went. Krillin and Yamcha took up seats in the second row on either side of Chichi, in an effort to reduce her embarrassment at Goku’s disappearing act. Puar had settled himself in the chair to Yamcha’s right, wishing he’d asked Bulma to build him a special chair as well. Sighing, he shifted his body into a parody of the most familiar human form he knew, so as to better fit into the restraining straps. Two Yamchas grinned at Bulma, and she shook her head and smiled at their antics. She’d had a dream rather like this, once…

Yajirobe’s seat remained empty; that fat mess  of a man had pleaded a stomach ache and chickened out only five minutes before takeoff, no doubt as a result of the treats he’d snuck aboard under his shirt. Master Roshi sat alone at the back with Oolong, both more interested in Roshi’s latest issue of “Jigglers” than in the groundbreaking moment of human history that they were privy to. Bulma took a moment to wonder why she’d even bothered to invite them. They’d probably only shown up in the hopes that they might meet some horny aliens and get to see some space titties.

                Of course, Bulma’s preposterous reasoning was completely wrong, not to mention insulting to men of such fine tastes. They’d shown up to see her boobs in zero-G, of course. Chichi’s presence was an added bonus, and one they were both looking forward to. Even Mrs. Briefs had a nice set of cans that could only be improved by the marvels of reduced gravity. “Thank God for tube tops.” Roshi muttered, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

                “Okay, everyone, are you ready?” Bulma’s voice rang through the hollow interior of the ship, her excitement palpable to all those present. It was infectious, too, as every other occupant nodded eagerly. Yamcha let out an excited whoop, and Krillin grinned from ear to ear. Even Chichi couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. It had been a long time since she’d had any adventure in her life and she was looking forward to it, even if only for a few hours. Nice, safe, controlled adventure. Yes sir.

                “Blast us off, sweetie dear!” Mrs. Briefs chimed in. “Punch it!” She chirped, thrusting one fist into the air.

                “Yes,” Dr. Briefs mumbled from somewhere beneath his moustache, “Put the pedal to the metal, or so they say!” Kitty, locked tightly into his harness, let out an accompanying yowl. Dr. Briefs smiled and scratched the animal’s head, though Bulma was pretty sure that had just been the cat’s way of expressing his dissatisfaction with the travel arrangements.

                “Okay, here we go!” Bulma crowed, leaning forward in her seat to reach the ship’s console. Her nimble fingers flew over the keyboard, tapping in the launch sequence as the computers finished their final systems checks. Everyone held their breath as the ship around them began to rumble and shake, its engines roaring to life. Puar let out a squeal and grabbed for Yamcha’s hand, and Krillin laughed to see the two Yamchas clutching each other so tightly. He elbowed Chichi and directed her attention to the sight with a wicked grin. She smirked back at him as they both shared the same thought; Yamcha had finally found the perfect mate for himself: himself.

Master Roshi and Oolong clasped hands, tears streaming from their eyes as they imagined the greatness they were about to behold. “Zero G ta-tas,” Oolong chanted quietly, like a prayer.

                “Chichi’s Chi-Chis!” Roshi drooled.

                “Mother and Daughter show,” the pig panted.

                “Bouncy bouncy!” Roshi felt his heart beating so hard in his chest, he thought he might have a heart attack and die right there. As long as it didn’t happen before the soft and squishy fun, he figured he could die a happy man.

                Stomachs dropped all around as the ship began its rocket powered ascent to the stars, and nausea did indeed force Chichi to abandon her note-taking quest. The pencil dropped from her fingers, forgotten as her stomach began a series of summersaults within her belly and she concentrated all her energy on not being the first one to barf. Yamcha, the real one, not the Puar one, took that honour from her, his stomach suddenly catching up to him as the rocking of the ship ceased. Luckily, sick-bags had been provided and he’d managed to make use of his in good time.

                “Wet naps are in the compartment on the side of your chair!” Bulma called out, far too cheerfully, as she heard her boyfriend retching into his bag. He grumbled at her as though she’d somehow managed to do it on purpose, which she more than likely had. She laughed before focusing her attention back on the computer screen before her, in order to monitor their progress. “Everything’s operating at optimal levels, Dad!” She reached over, and squeezed her father’s arm. Not wanting her mother to feel left out, she reached out and grabbed a hold of her, too. “And, I must say, the paint job in here is spectacular!”

                “Oh, well you know we do our best, dearie.” Mrs. Briefs gushed at the compliment, thinking to herself that if they did meet any hostile aliens, surely such attention to detail and beauty would make them want to be friends immediately. That, and the little lace curtains she’d found for the hull’s outer windows were just _darling_. It was just too bad that Bulma hadn’t let her reupholster the seats in silk brocade. It really would have made the room. That daughter of hers was just a big old spoilsport.

                Bulma smiled to herself in satisfaction as the central computer let out a loud beep. The sensors told her that they had left Earth’s atmosphere and were currently in orbit. Orbit! The word was like a drug to her system, better than any praise she’d ever gotten, better than any award she’d ever won. Better than sex! And chocolate! And chocolate covered sex! She’d built a ship and gone to space, and all before her thirtieth birthday! What a kick!

                “Okay everyone, I think we should be safe to unbuckle and leave our seats now.” She said, popping open the closure on her own harness and bouncing out of her seat. “The ship’s gravity simulation systems seem to be working, so no worries about floating away!” At her words, the tears of joy in the back row of seats became tears of true anguish.

                “No bouncy bouncy?” Roshi asked, sounding like a lost child.

                “No Mother and Daughter show.” Oolong confirmed, his poor piggy ears drooping sadly. “No chi-chis and no ta-tas.”

                “What have we done to deserve this?” Roshi cried, holding his head in his hands, while Oolong patted his back, trying to comfort the desolate old man. “What do I even have to live for?”

                “There there, don’t cry,” Oolong said, tutting and shushing his partner in perversion. “Maybe the gravity controls will break.”

                “Maybe we could break them.” Roshi suggested, a feisty gleam suddenly replacing the tears in his eyes. Oolong grinned back, his little piggy tail waggling with excitement.

                “Maybe we could.”

                All around them, everybody was unbuckling their belts, stretching and groaning and trying to regain their senses after their jolting ride through Earth’s atmosphere. “Yikes, that was rough.” Krillin said, patting his stomach. “I thought I was gonna lose my lunch for a while there.” He ignored a glare from Yamcha, who’d just finished dumping his puke-sack and spent wet nap in the garbage disposal chute.

                “Well maybe it’ll be your turn on the way back, and we’ll see who’s laughing then.” The scarred warrior rubbed his unruly guts with one hand, fanning his face with the other.

                “Here, Yamcha,” Bulma turned one of the air vents toward her boyfriend, finally showing him the pity he’d been hoping for. “Some cool air on your face will do you some good.” She gave his back a quick pat of sympathy before moving on to help Chichi undo her restraints. Puar had simply shifted back into his cat form to be free of his own belts, and was now floating, concerned, beside Yamcha’s head.

                “Ugh,” he said to the little cat, “I am not looking forward to the trip home. I don’t think I even have anything left to puke up.”

                “Okay everybody!” Bulma announced, having made her way back to the main console. Everyone turned toward her, so no one noticed the two sneaky souls who’d crawled into the small room that housed the ships central processing units. The ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign didn’t even warrant a pause from the two troublemakers. “I’m setting the ship’s propulsion systems to zero, so now we’re coasting along the way everything else up here gets by!”

                “The controls have got to be in here somewhere.” Oolong muttered, trying to keep his voice down as Roshi squeezed in beside him. “Do you know anything about computers?”

                “Err, I’m a good hand at the internet.” Roshi intoned, wiggling his eyebrows at the pig. “But this, I have no idea.”

                “Hmm,” Oolong bent at the waist, studying the labels on each switch and plug. “Damn. Me either. Maybe if we just start pulling stuff?”

                “No! We can’t do that! Who knows what this stuff controls. What if we flip the wrong switch and end up turning off the life support?” The old man reached out, swatting Oolong’s hand away from a cable.”

                “Ow!” Oolong snatched his hand away and glared at his friend. “You know, I’m beginning to doubt your commitment to this.”

                “All I’m saying is look at what you’re doing before you start pulling wires and kill us all.”

                “Okay, fine, look at this one.” He pointed, and Roshi squinted to see the label in the dim light. GRAV. “Grav, that’s probably short for ‘Gravity’ right? I’m pulling it.” Both squeezed their eyes shut at Oolong’s pudgy little fingers grasped the lever. He heaved, using more effort than he thought necessary just to turn off some gravity. Nothing happened. No alarms, no explosions, and most importantly, no floating breasts. Just an eerie silence, like someone had switched off a distant fan that you hadn’t even been aware was running.

                “Okay everyone, here it goes, it’s time for what you all came for!” Bulma tapped a few buttons and suddenly the computer screens all around the ship’s interior blinked off. Two beats later, they flickered back on, this time showing not the ship’s OS, but rather a panoramic view of the vast, dark ‘landscape’ around them. “I’ve positioned the ship so that the main camera is facing Earth. That’ll be on the main screen here,” she gestured to the largest screen, the one directly in front of the captain’s chair, “but video cameras implanted into the shell of the outer hull are delivering live feeds. A full three-sixty view!” She finished, excitedly.

                “Wow,” Krillin exclaimed, looking at one of the side cameras. “Is that a satellite?”

                “Oh my, look how dark it is out there! I thought the stars would look much different up close!” Mrs. Briefs leaned into another screen, as though peering closer into it would allow her to see the picture in greater detail. “Now I see that they really are just little dots!”

                “Oh my God.” Yamcha’s flat voice broke through the excited chattering of the others. He sounded as though he was about to be sick again.

                “What’s the matter,” Bulma teased, too busy looking at the amazing view of her home planet to pay him much attention. “You going to heave again?”

                “What the hell _is_ that?” He asked no one in particular, raising one shaky hand to point at the screen. Krillin turned to see what Yamcha was pointing at and he, too, stopped in his tracks.

                “Bulma, Dr. Briefs…I think you guys had better come over here and check this out.” Krillin sounded slightly less sick than Yamcha, but still straddling the city limits of Vomitville.

                “Oh, what is it?” Bulma snapped, stomping over. Chichi wandered near too, stopping a few feet away to put a hand to her suddenly pale face.

                “Those are spaceships.” She said, numbly, the only one brave enough to voice it. “What are they doing here?”

                “It looks like they’re headed toward Earth,” Dr. Briefs put in, in his usual calm manner. Kitty, however, was alert and bright eyed, his tail whipping back and forth as he appeared to be studying the screens along with the Doctor.

                “Why are there so many?” Krillin asked.

                “We have to go back.” Chichi said, and all around her, heads nodded in agreement. “We have to go back now.”

                Bulma was already at the main console, frantically typing commands into the computer. “GRAV disabled?” She shrieked, pounding her fist against the metal panelling below the keyboard. “What do you mean, GRAV disabled?” She tried again, typing the long command sequence over from the beginning, only to be met with the same infuriating message. “Augh!” She groaned, striding toward the room that housed the ship’s hardware. “You stupid computer! The only way the GRAV could be disabled is if the switch is off, which it’s not, because how the hell else did we get up here in the first place!” She ranted, throwing the door open. Two guilty faces stared at her from within. Both seemed slightly disappointed.

                “Er, hello Bulma.” Roshi said, straightening his back from its bent position. “We were just admiring all of this circuitry here.”

                “So many switches.” Oolong put in, sounding impressed.

                “These wires are all such pretty colours. Tell me, did you pick them out yourself?” Roshi turned to Oolong, “Our Bulma did always have a good eye for colours.” The pig nodded enthusiastically, ears flopping comically on either side of his head.

                “What did you do?” She growled, low in her throat, like an angry dog. “Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.” She pleaded, pushing past the two of them, her eyes going straight for the GRAV switch. With a wail of frustration, she slammed her hand against the side of the unit, the other hand coming to rest over her eyes as though she were about to cry.

                “We just wanted to see what zero gravity was like,” Oolong said, weakly, as Krillin, Yamcha, and Chichi came to see what all the fuss was about.

                “You absolute IDIOTS!” Bulma exploded, whirling round and smacking them both soundly on the back of the head with the palms of her hands. They both stumbled forward at the force of the blows. “You morons! GRAV doesn’t stand for gravity!” She pushed her way out of the little room, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, and raced back to her keyboard. “Nobody touch ANYTHING.” She yelled. No one said anything for a moment; they simply filed quietly out of the small space and back into the central room of the ship, watching with baited breath as Bulma worked her magic.

                “What does it stand for?” Chichi ventured, after it became apparent that Bulma had done whatever she could do for the moment.

                The young genius turned, rested her behind casually against the console. Her palms grasped the edge of the counter on either side of the keyboard, the whiteness in her knuckles the only sign of her tension. “GRAV, G R A V. It stands for Genesis Reactor Activation Valve.” She shifted, one arm crossing beneath her breasts while the other came to rest against her cheek.

                “In other words,” Dr. Briefs put in, “the thing that lets fuel into our engines.” Everyone gulped. That didn’t sound good.

                “Well now that the switch is flipped back, doesn’t that make everything okay?” Krillin asked, nervously. Everyone nodded eagerly at this idea, except the two scientists. Bulma and her father shared a look, the kind of glance in which two people can share volumes of information in a mere second.

                “The Genesis Reactor, the propulsion system of this ship, requires a constant flow of fuel through its systems.” Bulma said.

                “It’s highly experimental technology.” Dr. Briefs muttered, as though that explained everything, before allowing his daughter to continue.

                “Even when the ship’s propulsion is set by the computer at zero, effectively shut off, fuel is still circulating. Because of that, fuel is still burnt off at a low rate, requiring a constant need for replenishment from the tanks. When that switch was flipped, it closed the valve that allows fuel from the tank into the engines. The fuel in the system kept circulating, but by now the system won’t be full because of the constant burn off. There’s air in there, when it’ supposed to be airtight. If we open the valve again now, there are going to be air bubbles. We can’t run with air bubbles in our fuel lines. The engines could explode.”

                “That switch was only off for a few minutes!” Oolong said, “What’s a few minutes going to do, really?

                “Do you even understand how much fuel we’re talking about here?” Bulma snapped, lunging forward at the pig. “Even a few SECONDS is too long!”

                “So what does this all mean?” Yamcha asked, glancing at the main screen, where the ships were visible now. It looked like some of them had entered the Earth’s atmosphere.

                “It means we have to drain the Gen Reactor.” Dr. Briefs put an arm around each of his girls, hugging them to his sides. “And then we have to let it refill so that all the air has been removed.”

                “I’ve already started the process.” Bulma slumped against her father’s side, grateful for his support. Her voice was quiet. “It will take two days. Give or take an hour or two.” She couldn’t look at any of their faces, all staring at her in horror. “They’re big tanks.” She tried to smile, tried to reassure them all, as the first tears started to slip down her cheeks.

                “Well,” Chichi said, practically, “I suppose we’d better settle in for the wait.”

                The first hour wasn’t so bad. They could still pretend that maybe the alien ships were friendly in nature, that the big guns attached to their hulls were for defence only. All attempts at hailing the foreign ships were met with failure; either the messages weren’t getting through, or the occupants of those ships simply couldn’t be bothered.

                When the explosions began to dot the surface of their pretty little planet, the pretending stopped. Everyone watched in horror, not caring that tears were streaming down every last face. Even Yamcha and Krillin, tough guys to the end, couldn’t stop the flow. They all gathered around Chichi, holding her and offering hope that they didn’t feel, as she worried and wailed over her husband and son.

                Ten hours later, ships began to return, either docking into the biggest craft, what they’d begun to refer to as the Mothership, or continuing off into the black void of space.

                Twenty seven hours after landfall, every last ship had returned. That’s when they watched the Mothership, a monstrous oval of metal, manoeuvre into place. They watched the ship’s great cannons begin to glow with the charge of building energy, slowly getting brighter and brighter. It was agonizing, knowing that there was nothing they could do, and yet none turned away from the display screen.

                Twenty eight hours after landfall, they watched the mothership surge backward with the recoil of its guns, so many points of light heading toward the Earth. Twenty eight hours, two minutes, and three seconds after landfall, they watched the Earth crumble in a spectacular explosion that rocked their little ship in its orbit, forcing it outward and away toward the outer planets in their solar system. The moon and countless asteroids were their companions, floating away, perhaps to find new planets to worship.

                Twenty nine hours after landfall, the mothership had completed its rotation and was well on its way back into the black recesses of space. At thirty hours, Capsule 1 was alone in its corner of the universe.

                Forty seven hours after landfall, the computer beeped three times. The refuelling of the engines was complete.

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Malfunctioning ship, eh? Where have we seen this before? *Shifty eyes* I promise it’ll be different from last time. Please consider leaving a review to let me know what you thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, there’d have been a lot less Saiyaman. He was silly, and you know it.

                Author’s notes: So, we’re going to be jumping around a bit in regards to the timeline, because I find myself unable to force this story into a nice, linear fashion. Hopefully, things don’t get too confusing. Chronologically, this chapter takes place after chapter 1.

                Thanks go out to everyone who has reviewed, either on site, by email, or forum-wise. You know who you are, and your support has been great. Thanks so much. *hugs*

 

PRESENT DAY

                “Yo Bulma, what’cha doing?” Bulma turned from her desk and smiled as Yamcha strolled into the lab. “Looks complicated.” She twirled around on her chair and picked up a piece of her experiment.

                “I’m working on the gravity stabilizer. I thought that maybe if I could increase the gravity in a small portion of the station, maybe it would help you guys train.” She squinted, wrinkles creasing her forehead as she set a tiny screw into its hole.

                “Ahh, like weighted clothes, but less awkward.” He leaned over her shoulder from behind, and she nearly gagged at the smell.

                “Augh, what the hell, Yamcha? You smell like blood.”

                “Of course I do.” He laughed, leaning in closer so that his mouth was next to her ear. “I shot myself in the head, remember?”

                Simultaneously, in the other ear, a slick, sinuous voice that washed through her veins, making her sweat. Vengeance’s voice. “Codename Sable is dead.” Over and over again, “Codename Sable is dead.”

                Bulma whipped around, horrified to see the blood dripping down Yamcha’s face. _Codename Sable is dead._ “Oh my God, Yamcha!” She cried out, one hand flying to her mouth, as though to stop the gagging. _Codename Sable is dead._

                “Aww, don’t be like that, babe. It’s fine. See?” Yamcha prodded the area around his forehead, and suddenly there was a gaping hole there, in the middle. He stuck his finger in, wiggling it around in illustration. All of a sudden, the hole was big enough for his whole hand to fit. _Codename Sable is dead._ “See, look, I can put stuff in here.” He pulled his wallet out of the hole and showed it to her. “Now you won’t have to carry my wallet and keys in your purse all the time.” She swallowed bile as he pulled out a keyring and jingled it in her face, blood dripping and spraying from the swaying metal. _Codename Sable is dead._

                “No,” she gripped the table behind her, desperately wanting to get away. “No!” _Codename Sable is dead._

                “What’s the matter? It’s not that bad. Besides, I love you, Blue.” _Codename Sable is dead._ “We can work through this.”

“Bulma!” A female voice shouted. Bulma felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her. Her eyes flew open and she gasped to see Chichi, clad in her nightgown, a concerned look on her face. “Bulma, it’s okay,” Chichi cooed as the blue haired woman began to sob. “You were having a nightmare. Shhh, that’s okay. You were just dreaming.”

                “H...How did you know?” Bulma hiccupped, wiping her sodden face on the sheets as Chichi sat back a little. Chichi’s room was across the hallway.

                “I...” The younger woman looked uncomfortable. “I heard you muttering and yelling. You were just thrashing around, saying ‘Codename Sable is dead’ over and over again.”

*

“Well, here goes.” Krillin said, setting the small canister inside the air lock. He closed the hatch, and closed his eyes for a moment of silence. Everyone else did the same. “We love ya, buddy.” Krillin said, trying not to hiccup as he wiped tears from his eyes.

                “Rest in Peace, Yamcha.” Chichi said, through a sniffle, as Krillin pushed the release button, opening the outer airlock and shooting  canister out toward the stars. Puar let out a wail as the last bits of his friend were sucked into the vast, dark vacuum of space. Everyone murmured their own goodbyes as they watched the little glass container float off into the darkness. They didn’t have his body, or a proper urn, so they’d done their best. A burial at sea, so to speak. A glass jar, pilfered from Mrs. Briefs’ kitchen was lined with photos and filled with the ashes of some of Yamcha’s favourite things. His baseball glove, though not the one from his career on Earth, of course, a favourite shirt, and all the things he’d had in his pocket, and cherished since, on that fateful day three years ago: three pennies, a gum wrapper, and a hair elastic. None of them had really understood why he kept the gum wrapper, but none of them had ever said anything. They’d all developed their own quirks and habits, their own vices, since Earth’s destruction. Things that had never mattered before became immeasurably precious, and things that had once seemed so important were now disregarded like dirt on the ground.

                They’d burned up the remnants of his life, each hesitating to put that next item into the flames. _Shouldn’t we keep it? How will we remember him? By doing this, aren’t we just wiping his existence from history?_ Their hands shook, their resolve wavered. In the end, it had been Bulma’s odd lack of sentimentality that kept them from holding onto those things. She’d kept nothing of him but a single picture of the two of them, laughing and covered in dirt and grease, taken shortly after their arrival on Red Station. Strange, for a relationship that had spanned twelve years, a friendship that was strong till the very end.

                _“Don’t you want this?”_ Chichi had asked, holding up a glove, a ball, a shirt, even a toothbrush. _“Something, anything of his, to remember him by?”_

                _“What’s the point?”_ Bulma had replied. _“Those are just things. They’re not him.”_ And Chichi had been left stunned, clutching a raggedy pair of sweatpants to her chest. She just didn’t understand. Some days, she felt she’d gladly die for even a dirty sock or used Kleenex as a memento of her boys.

                As cold as it seemed, as much as it hurt to admit, Bulma was right. Those things were useless, really. No amount of Yamcha’s junk would ever bring him back. None of them would ever fill the void he’d left in their lives. And the lack of it would never, ever make them forget him.

                And so each of them kept a picture, just one, so that if there were ever children to be had, there would be proof that a man named Yamcha had once lived, and died, for them.

 

*

 

                “You’ve failed me, Vegeta.” Frieza snapped, his tail tapping in irritation against his hover chair. “Again.”

                “I apologize, my Lord.” Vegeta inclined his head in a parody of a bow, and Frieza snarled to himself at this show of disrespect. “The agent eliminated himself before I arrived; there was no hope of resuscitation.” Radditz and Nappa kneeled a few feet back, Gohan crouched between them, each one dreading the moment when he might be called forward for interrogation. Or even when the lizard king might so much as look at them.

                “Perhaps if you had arrived faster, Princeling, you would have made it.” Zarbon put in, smugly flipping his long braid over his shoulder.

                “Forgive my impudence,” Vegeta said, in a tone that clearly indicated that he was not at all repentant, “but given that by the time that we received our orders, he’d already infiltrated our systems, there was no way we could have made it before he finished extracting the data he was after.” He looked pointedly at the exotic beauty, “The fact that he killed himself was beyond our control.” Zarbon huffed, but remained quiet.

                Frieza scowled, eyes narrowing into furious little slits. “I see.” He turned toward the last man in the room, a shrew of a creature who looked like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. “And has your team figured out what exactly he was after?”

                “N…no my Lord,” the technician sputtered, and Vegeta sneered. Mistake number one: never let the lizard see your fear. “The technology he used is quite advanced. We have been thus far unable to track it in our systems. It is as though it entered and left without a trace. As though it was never even there.” The little man’s eyes took on a dreamy quality that made the prince uncomfortable. It was obvious that he was in awe of whatever technology had duped them all. Mistake number two: never show enthusiasm about anything. It meant you cared. “In fact, it was a fluke that we caught it. One of my technicians just happened to be running a system check when the computer picked up the foreign drive.” Mistakes numbers three and four: never admit that your success was an accident, and never, ever give someone else the credit. Vegeta tightened his tail around his waist, reflexively, as he waited for the inevitable.

                “So you caught the intrusion but were not able to trace where it had been?” Frieza steepled his fingers together, elbows resting on the sides of his chair.

                “We will do better next time, sir.” The technician’s already wan pallor seemed to pale by several shades. Scare him any more, and he would glow in the dark, Vegeta thought.

                “Not good enough.” Frieza said, and with a flick of his hand, what had once been a man was nothing more than a corpse on the floor. “Next time, _you_ will do better.” He said to Vegeta, before dismissing the band of Saiyans with disgusted wave of his arm.

 

*

 

                Vengeance was true to his word. Three days after his first appearance, there was a short transmission waiting for them.

                “CODENAME BLUE,” it read, “I PRESUME THIS IS THE INFORMATION CODENAME SABLE WAS AFTER. THE FOLLOWING FILE HAS BEEN PASSWORD ENCRYPTED, IN THE EVENT THAT THIS REACHES THE WRONG HANDS. THE PASSWORD: SABLE’S LAST WORD. NO CAPS. I THINK YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS ONE.”

                “That’s cold, man.” Krillin said, reading over her shoulder, as Bulma’s shaking hands typed the word ‘blue’ into the computer. A pleasant chime sounded, and the coveted information spread itself before their eyes.

                “It’s cruel, is what it is.” She responded, scrubbing at her eyes with her hands before she continued. She’d nearly begun to bawl after receiving the transmission, and had had to take a moment to collect herself before calling in the others. “It’s mean and nasty and low, but it’s smart. God damn him, it’s smart. Our line with Yamcha was secure. No one but us could possibly have known the answer.”

                “I just wonder how he managed to get the files off the drive.” Dr. Briefs put in, one hand absently stroking his chin. “The security on that thing was pretty top notch.”

                “What I want to know is how he found us.” Puar had floated into the room, and was glaring at the radio as though it was Vengeance himself. “Is he going to come kill the rest of us, too?”

                “He doesn’t know where we are, in space.” Bulma said, trying to tamp down on her own bitterness. “The information needed to contact us was on the drive, for Yamcha, in case he had to disconnect. It’s all on there, if you know where to look.”

                “Which, apparently, he does.” The doctor said, appreciatively. “Must be quite clever, this Vengeance lad.”

                “He’s probably a technician or something.” Krillin was studying another of the little drives on Bulma’s work desk. “That’s how he got past the security systems and figured out how to hack into our communication channels. I sure as hell wouldn’t know what to do with this thing if I found it.” He poked the device, and Bulma slapped his hand away, her irritation at the situation plain on her face. She picked up the object herself, glaring at it.

                “It doesn’t matter who or what he is. If he found a way, someone else could too. It needs to be better.” She snapped.

                “Perhaps we could ask Dr. Gero.” Her father suggested, and Bulma shivered. The man gave her the creeps. There was something about him that seemed off, though she couldn’t place it. “I’m sure he could take a moment out of his research to give us a hand. Always helps to have a pair of fresh eyes looking at the matter.”

                “Sure dad, we’ll do that.” Bulma smiled at her father; it seemed nothing could faze the old man. “But for now, I think I’d better review this information.”

                “So you trust him, then?” Puar squeaked out, plainly unhappy with this development. Bulma sighed and reached out to scratch behind his ear.

                “You heard the transmission, Puar. Yamcha trusted him with the ghost drive, when he could have destroyed it instead.” Even as she spoke, Bulma felt herself bolstered by her own words. “Yamcha trusted him. That means that we should too…for now.” The little cat nodded gamely, though he was still plainly unhappy with the new development. He floated closer to drop down on the back of Bulma’s chair.

                “I’ll try.” He said, “But I refuse to like him. He killed Yamcha, when he could have let him live.” Bulma remained silent. She did not want to press the fact that Yamcha had, in fact, killed himself. Yamcha had pulled the trigger. Vengeance had given him the option, and Yamcha had pulled the trigger, damn him. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Bulma made a conscious effort to unclench her fists, before any of the others noticed. She forced herself to look at the screen, to concentrate on the next goal.  If she looked forward, she couldn’t see her feet stumbling beneath her.

                “Where is this?” Krillin asked, pointing at the blueprints displayed on the screen.

                “Weapons factory on Benthal Six.” Bulma replied, setting the computer to print the document so she could review it and make notes later. “It’s a rock planet with massive amounts of easily mined metals. No native life there, not even plants. Everything has to be brought in from elsewhere.”

                “So what makes this one special?” Krillin asked. “Why was the information on this one so heavily guarded?”

                “Experimental weapons division.” Bulma said, frowning at the newest page to pop out of the printer. “They’re working on Ki-zapping weapons. Armour that absorbs Ki attacks, and this awful little number,” she tapped the paper as she pushed it across the desk to Krillin and Puar, “a Ki-dampening headband that would remove the ability to use any Ki whatsoever.” Krillin grimaced – it was a nasty looking piece of work. The temple-screws bothered him particularly.

                “But that would make some of the strongest fighters in the Universe…” Puar marvelled.

                “Weaker than kittens, I know.” Bulma finished. “Which would be awesome if someone could get one of these on, say, Frieza, or one of his high-ranking officers, like Zarbon, Vegeta, or Ginyu…any one of those guys would be great. Unfortunately, it’s gonna end up on all the strong guys who are on our team. We need to take out all the research and make sure that thing never hits the markets.”

                “How the heck are we going to get in there?” The monk asked, pushing the circlet designs back at Bulma. He didn’t want to even think about anyone drilling holes in his skull and forcing that thing on him. “I imagine security is pretty tight.”

                “Don’t be silly,” she smiled back, in a way that made his stomach drop. He knew that smile and whatever followed was almost never good. “We’ve already been invited, of course. You and I,” she reached over, grabbed a surprised Puar by the scruff of the neck and held him up, wiggling and squirming, in Krillin’s face, “and my body double.”

 

*

 

                “Ugh, tell me again what we did to deserve this?” Radditz groaned as he watched the technician fumble with some gadget on the table. The man seemed nervous, though Radditz couldn’t say why. Having three pissed off Saiyans in the same small, small room with him certainly couldn’t be _that_ nerve wracking.

                “Frieza wants us to see this silly presentation,” Vegeta repeated for probably the fourth time since they’d received their assignment, “so that we might report back on his investment.” Radditz opened his mouth again, and Vegeta gave him _the glare_ ; a look that stopped grown men in their tracks, and sometimes caused unexplainable heart failure in children and small animals. “And if you do not shut your big fucking mouth, and stop asking questions, I will tear out your spleen and cram it down your throat. Even your tiny little brain should be able to comprehend that.”

                Nappa snickered, and Radditz nodded sullenly, wondering why the technician seemed even more afraid. It wasn’t like the threat had been directed at him anyways. Besides that, if Vegeta killed him, Radditz reasoned, then the technician would only be in a room with two pissed off Saiyans. Much less frightening than three.

                “What I wanna know,” Nappa grumbled, “is how the brat got out of this.”

                “The cub is of no need to us on this mission.” Vegeta said, dismissively, as he leaned in to take a closer look at the ki-draining circlet that the technician was currently working on. Nasty, dirty, fucking underhanded thing that it was.

                “Besides, Gohan is studying.” Radditz said, sounding every bit the doting parent. “His Saiyan grammar stinks like fresh shit on a hot day. When it’s humid.” Vegeta and Nappa shared a look, each looking as unimpressed as the other. Radditz’s analogies always seemed to involve shit.

 

*

 

                “So tell me again, how the hell you got us into this…whatever it is?” Krillin asked, nervously tugging at his shirt color for the tenth time in as many minutes. Security looked tight…really tight…almost as tight as his shirt collar, which felt like a noose around his neck.

                “I told you, it’s a presentation on the ki draining headband, among other things, to show Frieza and the other intergalactic assholes their progress. Word in the network is that Frieza is not exactly the patient type. When he’s shelling out resources for something, he wants it done fast. The other participants in the presentation are black market types, mainstream weapons manufacturers, and the like. Men and women with power and money, who are always looking for a way to get more power and money.” She fluffed her hair and checked her lipstick in her compact mirror. “And as for how I got us in, don’t be silly.” She tucked a rather suspicious second tube of lipstick into her purse.

                “I know, I know, you worked your computer wizardry and hacked us out some invites.” The bald monk sighed, glad at least that he wasn’t trapped in Bulma’s purse like poor Puar. Rather emasculating, he thought, to be masquerading around as a tube of lipstick. “But do we really have to go by these names?” He whined.

                “Of course we do.” She patted his bald head, dropped her compact into her purse, and strode over to the security desk. “They’re printed on the invitations.” She turned to the guard at the security desk, gave him a dazzling smile, and said, “Malibu Barbie and Mr. Clean, checking in.” He scanned the guest list with four round eyes, challenging Bulma’s ability to keep smiling as each eye rolled a different direction.

                “Initial here.” He said simply, handing his clipboard first to Bulma and then to Krillin, who dutifully scribbled ‘Mr. C’ beside the x. The guard waved them through without issue, all four eyes rolling skyward. Goddamn scientists. Always with the inside jokes. At least these two seemed decent enough about it. He smiled, patting the box of latex gloves on the counter top with one beefy hand. Too much sass and they’d be getting to know each other a little more personally.

                Krillin gulped, watching the man’s four eyes glaze over as he patted the box, lost in some dreamland of his own. “Er, is that all, sir?” He asked, meekly, and breathed out a great sigh of relief as the guard nodded.

                “Through that door.” The alien grumbled, waving them through before the next visitors stepped up.

*

                Vegeta’s eyes snapped up as a gorgeous girl and a little bald guy stepped into the already crowded office. She made a small, surprised ‘o’ with her mouth, as though she hadn’t expected such a crowd, while her little companion scanned the faces around him. He had the look of a warrior, and Vegeta’s scouter pinned him at a fairly decent power level, despite the small stature. Her bodyguard, perhaps? But then, who was she? Her power level was negligible, lower than that of a third class Saiyan newborn, but she was quite pretty, with an attractive body and big boobs; she didn’t look like she’d understand a word of the presentation. Vegeta knew the equation: the bigger the tits, the smaller the brain. Probably some underground weapons mogul’s moll, here to protect her sugar daddy’s investments. He was willing to bet a sizeable chunk of his fairly sizeable fortune that the little bodyguard was the one taking all the notes.

                Vegeta himself was actually quite interested in the presentation about to be given. The idea of ki-reducing technology was both fascinating and terrifying to him, given that Frieza would more than likely be the one to wield that power. He was eager to learn everything he could about it. Like everything else in his life, he felt that if he knew enough, he could overcome it. He imagined himself training, teaching his body to circumvent the technology, rendering it useless. Frieza would think himself safe, with the Prince of all Saiyans’ power under lock and key, and he would let his guard down…and then, and then…

                “Sire,” Vegeta was dragged out of his daydream by a nice, discreet elbow to the side, courtesy of Radditz. Nappa paled as the air went out of their prince in a puff, only to be replaced with a gasp. People were looking, and the murder of Radditz was about to become public spectacle.

                “My Prince,” he interjected, before Vegeta had a chance to do anything violent, “we are being asked to follow along.” Vegeta’s lip curled back in a royal sneer, but he played along, refusing to meet either of his subordinates’ eyes. In avoiding their gazes, he did accidentally lock eyes with a beautiful pair of baby blues, framed by thick lashes and creamy skin. He shook his head, irritated. Bimbo.

-

                Ten minutes into the presentation, it was clear to Vegeta that he’d underestimated the blue haired female. She hadn’t said anything to make him change his mind, hadn’t spoken at all, in fact, but he watched the way that her eyes roved around the room, taking in every last detail on their little tour through the labs. He noticed them narrow in concentration as the technicians explained what they were working on, watched them glaze over as they expounded on concepts she already understood, and watched them brighten as the group passed a washroom.

                “I have to pee.” She whispered to her companion a little too loudly. She flushed, sheepishly, as everyone turned to look at her. “Err, sorry.” She apologized, taking two steps backward, toward the clearly marked ladies’ room. Turning, she fled through the door as a few quiet chuckles rippled through the group.

-

                “Puar,” Bulma hissed, “my ass is _not_ that big.”

                “Maybe not to you,” the cat shot back, comparing his image in the mirror to the woman at his side. “Take a look, we’re the same.” Even the voice imitation was pretty good, though not spot on.

                “Try not to talk while you’re out there.” Bulma said, straightening a stray hair on the back of Puar’s head. “This is really weird.” She said, staring at the real, live doppelganger before her. “You ever been me before?” She asked, playfully.

                “Of course not,” Puar scoffed, blushing. Damn pale human skin! Okay, so maybe once or twice after one of their many break-ups, he’d cheered Yamcha up with a crass imitation of Bulma, but he’d never used it to his own gain…not that he’d never thought of it. Shaking his head to clear it of unhealthy thoughts, he focused once again on retaining his shape. “You have everything you need?” He asked, and she held up her little ghost drive, smiling as she stuck it in her pocket. “Okay, good luck then. I’ll see you back at the ship.” He straightened his skirt and picked up Bulma’s purse, before flouncing out the door.

                Left alone, the real Bulma could do nothing but sit and review her plans while she waited.

-

                Radditz’s nose twitched to life as the blue haired woman re-joined the group. She smelled different, didn’t she? He looked at Nappa and Vegeta, to see if either of their senses of smell had suddenly danced into center stage, but neither seemed to be paying any attention. He leaned toward her, as unobtrusively as possible, and took a deep breath. Had she put on perfume or something? She definitely smelled different. Almost animal, somehow. Like prey. Yum.

-

                The Bulma-shaped Puar crowded a little closer into Krillin when he felt the long haired Saiyan’s eyes on him, felt his heart beat so fast he thought it might burst. He’d known that men would look at him differently, but given the situation, it was really making him nervous. When the big man leaned in to take a whiff, Puar thought he was going to shit himself and die, right there on the spot. He’d known Krillin was along because the mission would be dangerous, and he’d been warned that they would probably come into contact with some rather unsavoury characters, but no one had said _anything_ about Saiyans.

                Puar resisted the urge to mewl like a scared kitten when he was scented again, hoping to whatever God was listening that the Saiyan wasn’t sniffing out his next meal.

*

                Ten minutes after Puar left, Bulma peeked out the door, glad to see the little tour group had moved on. She slunk out and ducked into a service corridor, stopping only to check the number on the wall against the memorized blueprint she had in her head. If she followed this hallway, she’d find a computer lab, and from there she’d use the ghost drive to hack into the system and destroy all of the files relating to the ki weaponry and armour…not before making copies for herself, of course.  Ideally, she would have liked to send in Puar, who could shapeshift to get easily in and out, but the security systems in this facility were such that nothing less than an expert could get through, and the ghost still needed human direction. She’d thought, more than once, about asking Dr. Gero for help in that area, but something about him still put her off.

                After a few nerve wracking moments, she reached the lab and was relieved to see that no one was inside. She’d been relying purely on luck for that stage of the plan, not that she’d ever admit it to Puar, Krillin, or any of the others waiting back on Red Station. They’d kill her themselves for being so foolish.

                After locking the door from the inside, she strode over to the nearest computer, pulling out her little drive and plugging it in. She sat, waiting for the ghost’s programming to initialize and start the steps that would allow her to hack into the research team’s databases.

*

                Vegeta was gone, and Nappa was irritated. One second, his prince had been standing there, idly looking over the various little creations, probably the only one of the three of them to understand anything about them, even if that understanding bored him to tears, and the next, he was gone, leaving Nappa all alone in his misery. Radditz was technically there in the physical sense, but he hadn’t stopped staring at the blue-haired girl, nor had he allowed himself to be separated from her by a distance of more than three steps at any time, and she was obviously not enjoying the attention.

                Poor, fool boy, Nappa thought, as he watched Radditz trail after her like a brat after its mother, all the while pretending not to stare. Did he think he was being subtle?

*

                Bulma pulled the drive from the computer port and pocketed it with nervous fingers. So far, her little wonder-device had only been used to sneak in and copy information undetected, never to sneak in and wipe out massive amounts of data undetected. She was fairly confident that someone would notice the loss before she and her companions were safely back at Red Station; that was okay with her. What would not be okay is if someone noticed the loss before she and her companions were safely out of this research facility. That would definitely not be cool.

                Either way, the task was done, and she was in possession of the only digital copy of the documents. Vengeance had assured her that he would see to the physical; all the prototypes and any existing paper documents would be destroyed. He hadn’t said how, and she hadn’t asked.

                Taking a deep breath and trying to look as though she belonged there, just in case anyone was around, Bulma opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

                What she did not expect was to turn a corner and come face to face with one of Frieza’s top henchmen, none other than Vegeta, the Prince of Saiyans.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, there’d have been a lot more “three years” filler. You know what I mean.

                Author’s notes: When you get to a certain point in this chapter, you might think to yourself “WTF?” And when you hit this point, you will ask me and I will admit that, yes, I have been re-reading RM’s “Space Station Z” in all its incomplete glory, and this pairing holds some unexplainable, perhaps perverse interest for me. (What doesn’t?)

                Also, there’s some graphic  sexual content in this chapter, of both the homo and heterosexual varieties. Not work safe! Not family friendly! 

                And I know this note is getting really long, but I just wanted to thank everyone for reading, and thank you so much to those of you who’ve commented. You’ve no idea how much your words mean.

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_Last time: What she did not expect was to turn a corner and come face to face with one of Frieza’s top henchmen, none other than Vegeta, the Prince of Saiyans._

_*_

Ho, shit.

That was Bulma’s first thought, as mindless as it was. Her second was that he was quite handsome up close, and her third, once her brain was capable again of intelligent thought again, was that she was going to die unless she came up with something good, and fast. She saw the confusion and surprise in his eyes, even if the rest of his face remained cool, and she knew that he recognized her from the presentation that her body double was still currently attending.

She opened her mouth to speak, stopped, licked her lips, and tried again, with little success. Vegeta wondered what form of brilliance would possibly come out once she finished thinking. He’d heard it all before, and killed for most of it. Hopefully she at least came up with something funny. Looking at her wide eyes and gaping mouth, he didn’t have much hope.

Both were saved from that gruelling fate by the sudden explosion that rocked the building, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Vegeta stood still, glued like a rock to the floor, but Bulma took a teetering step, trying to steady her balance on three-inch heels. Another explosion went off in the distance, causing that one shaky step to become two, three, four, till she ran, smack dab, into the Saiyan’s chest.

Surprised beyond belief, Vegeta found himself reaching out automatically to catch her as she bowled into him, her shriek of surprise ringing through his sensitive ears, as the next blast sent them both tumbling to the floor. He landed on his back with a thump, shrieking female hitting his chest hard. Her shoulder caught him in the sternum, and he let out a gasp as all the air was knocked out of him. He groaned, glad that no one had been around to see the prince of Saiyans being taken down by a weak female. She’d have been dead already, if there’d been witnesses, but as it was, she lay stretched over him, legs straddling his hips, dazed and lazy, as though she’d hurt herself in the fall. He felt her heart pounding against his chest, even through his armour plate, fast and strong and obviously terrified.

She raised her head, her eyes locking with his as she slowly pushed herself up, so that she was no longer plastered against his chest. The look on her face was that of a little animal that knew it was about to become dinner. “Whatever else I did today,” she began, shakily, “I did not do that.” She swallowed hard, not breaking eye contact, as though willing him to believe her. As though innocence of that crime would save her from disembowelment and whatever other tortures were running through her panicked mind. Vegeta could tell by the wide-eyed look of surprise on her face, that she was telling the truth.

Frankly though, at that moment, with her long legs clamped so snugly over his groin, and her plush, round breasts hanging there in his face, he was willing to believe anything she told him. He could not deny that she was appealing, with her plump lips still forming a shocked, scared little ‘o’ that he couldn’t stop staring at, couldn’t stop imagining wrapped around him.

“Kindly get the fuck off me.” He growled out, before the urge to grind her into the ground became too strong. It had really been too long. Maybe he’d hit his head when he landed. Maybe her species exuded some kind of aphrodisiac pheromone. Maybe explosions just made him randy.

 Her face reddened and she scrambled to get off, one leg sliding over his crotch and nearly crushing that all too sensitive part in the process. By the time he’d hauled himself up, she’d already bolted and was halfway down the hall, running as though she could really escape from him if he chose to give chase. What surprised him was that whatever she’d done - he had a pretty good guess, but he still didn’t know for sure - he really had no desire to turn her in. Any woman who ran like that in three inch heels deserved her chance at life. Even more surprising was that he couldn’t stop watching her, with her bouncy hair and round ass. He could hear her panting and she wasn’t even around the corner yet. He could catch up to her easily, knock her to the ground, push her on her back and-

Just as he was considering it, a bleep on his scouter informed him that he was probably going to be in deep shit pretty soon, seeing as the whole facility was crumbling down around him. He groaned, thinking about the upcoming confrontation with Frieza, as he watched the woman round the corner and disappear from view. Suddenly, his appetite for her had disappeared. Vegeta shook his head to clear his thoughts, before blasting off to find Nappa and Radditz. He needed to talk to them before Frieza did, and make sure that there was no mention of his disappearance from the presentation.

*

*

Two hours later, Bulma was still trying to catch her breath. She still couldn’t believe that she’d gotten away, couldn’t believe that he’d _let_ her get away, because that was what had happened. She had no illusions about her physical prowess, not when running down a hallway made her lungs burn and her heart race. Everything she’d ever heard about the Prince of Saiyans said he should have killed her on the spot. He should have killed her the second she came out of that computer room and he realized she was up to something. Or when she’d knocked him flat, or again when she’d pretty much admitted to having done something bad. He was a legend, a nightmare, a ruthless, sadistic bastard who lived for the thrill of the slaughter.

And he’d let her go after she’d bowled him over and practically molested him. If the building hadn’t been collapsing around them, she might’ve done worse. Having the terror of the universe between her thighs was a thrill like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and hey, it didn’t hurt that he was kind of hot.

Shaking her head to clear that silly line of thought, she considered the situation a little more rationally. Of course he hadn’t let her go because he liked her, or something silly like that. Aside from the stumbling debacle, their only interaction had been about two seconds of eye contact before that dull presentation had started. She’d heard his scouter bleep as she ran; she remembered it because the sound had surprised her so much she’d stopped concentrating on running in her heels, and almost rolled her ankle. He’d probably gotten a transmission about something more important than some bimbo wandering around where she shouldn’t be, never mind the fact that her exact double happened to be where she _was_ supposed to be. Whatever, he’d obviously known that she hadn’t set the bomb. He had to have, because she was busy falling into him when it went off, all the way on the other side of the facility. Plus, she’d told him she didn’t do it. That had to count for something.

Anyway, he’d probably been called off to help deal with the real culprit; some poor bugger that Bulma imagined was probably seven kinds of dead by now. Either that, or wishing he was.

“Hey Bulma, how’s it going in here?” Krillin’s voice startled her, and she dropped the pen that she’d been twirling in her fingers. They both watched it clatter to the floor. “Still shaken, hm?” He asked as she bent down to pick it up. He pulled up a chair next to her and sat down, leaning back and propping his feet up on the ship’s console. They were in port in a nearby city for the night to rest and refuel before starting the journey back home. Puar had gone out, needing some air before being confined to the ship again, so Bulma and Krillin were left to finish the preparations. It would be at least another month before they reached Red Station again, and more if the stops they were planning along the way didn’t go on schedule.

“Yeah, I still feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest.” She smiled over at him, wryly. She’d debated telling Krillin and Puar about her little run-in with the Saiyan Prince, and in the end, she’d come clean. She felt they should know if their safety was in jeopardy, simply by virtue of knowing her. Krillin, especially, since the Saiyans had seen them together during the presentation.

“Me too. I thought we were goners the second I saw those Saiyans in the room. And then when the whole place started to go, I couldn’t believe they didn’t try and hold anyone for questioning.”

“They’re Saiyans, Krillin, listen to what you’re saying. I don’t think they ever hold anyone for questioning.”

The small man grimaced and nodded. The universe was rife with horror stories about those three beasts, and the race of which they were the only survivors. Bloodthirsty monsters. “But Vegeta let you go.” Krillin persisted, “There’s got to be a reason for that.”

“Oh, of course. Didn’t I tell you, he saw me and it was love at first sight, obviously.” Bulma laughed and batted her eyelashes at her friend, who gave her a knowing look.

“I don’t know about the Prince, but the tall one with the long hair seemed pretty keen on the Puar version of you.” He grinned. “Maybe you should play that for what it’s worth.”

“Oh, shut up!” Bulma groaned and threw her pen at him. It bounced off his forehead, leaving a mark between the top two of the six dots on his bald head. “I could never date a man who had that much hair. I mean, my god, imagine how long he takes to wash it! He’d use up all the hot water and I bet he’s the type who doesn’t even clean out the drain!” She stuck her tongue out.

“Ooh, touché.” Krillin smiled at her and made to get up. Bulma’s hand on his arm stopped him from leaving. She wasn’t looking at him, however, as her eyes were glued to the computer screen suddenly alive with text.

“Think of a radio codename, and think of it fast.” She said, pointing to the screen. CODENAME VENGEANCE REQUESTING VOICE TRANSMISSION, it said in blinking capitals. CONFIRM IN 5 SECONDS. “Because I am not up to dealing with him by myself right now.”

*

*

Puar took a deep breath and stepped through the doors, feeling the bass pump through his body, more and more with each step toward the dark interior of the club. He took stock of himself, making sure everything was in the right place, properly proportioned and held fast. This was a fairly familiar form to him by now; he’d been practicing it for months, but he’d never tried it out in public before and he wanted to make sure that nothing was slipping away on him.

Satisfied in his outward appearance, he ran a hand through his shaggy blue hair and walked up to the bar. “One alkabrew,” he called out, ordering the closest thing he’d found to good old Earth beer. He smiled to himself as he handed over his money, liking the way his voice had come out; smooth and just a little bit deep. He’d spent hours perfecting his vocal cords to produce the right sound. Same with the rest of his body, in fact. He’d played with every shape and size of humanoid form imaginable before settling on this one, this ‘new’ Puar. Of course, he didn’t intend to ever remain permanently in this form; he’d still spend most of his time in his natural cat shape, but he was sick of always being the little guy. On Earth, it hadn’t mattered so much, but out in space it had become more and more necessary to be able to shift into something more intimidating than a tiny kitten. Coming into contact with those Saiyans had clinched it for him; as a female, he’d been uncomfortable enough being seen as a sexual object by that longhaired one, and in his normal form, he’d probably have been eaten whole! He was sick of being prey. He needed a new body, a second comfortable form that would at least make people think twice about messing with him.

The form he’d chosen looked fairly human, an average sized adult male. Not too intimidating, but at least he didn’t look like a total pushover at a lean, well-muscled six feet and three quarters of an inch. Of course, he wasn’t as strong as he looked, the muscles being mostly for show, but they would do well enough. He’d patterned his body shape mostly after Yamcha’s, but his face resembled Bulma’s a little bit, so that combined with blue hair the colour of his cat form’s fur, he looked almost like he could be her brother. He’d kept his own eyes, as changing them always screwed with his vision, and simply altered his cat teeth to fit a human mouth. Small detail though it was, he felt that their sharpness made him seem just a little more dangerous.

Puar took his brew and made his way through the crowd, looking for an empty table. He noticed a few stares directed his way and thought, not for the first time of the evening, that maybe it had been a bad idea to go out by himself. It wasn’t that he intended to do anything dangerous – he’d just wanted to go out and grab a beer – but a place like this was never _not_ dangerous. Port bars tended to be crowded with pirates and lowlives, looking to buy their pleasure, and some of their looks said that they weren’t above just _taking_ it if a deal couldn’t be struck.

*

Radditz scanned the bar, glumly, as he sipped his drink. He hadn’t really wanted to come out on his own tonight, but neither of his teammates had been willing to come along for a night of drinking. Vegeta had holed himself up in his quarters after being chewed out by Frieza for failing to complete a task that he hadn’t been assigned in the first place; protecting the research facility. No big deal, as they’d all known it would happen the moment the first tremor rocked the building. Nevertheless, the prince was never very sociable after a run in, even just over the com-link, with their lizard overlord.

Nappa was generally a good time at a party, but the bigger Saiyan had declined an outing in favour of lessons with the cub. He was determined to have Gohan speaking fluent Saiyan before his next birthday, an endeavour which was staunchly supported by Vegeta. Radditz didn’t see the need for such haste when there were only the four of them left, but he’d been quite obviously outvoted. Beat down was more like it.

He watched idly, mug in hand, as a blue haired man threaded his way through the throng of people, presumably looking for a place to sit down. In his loneliness, he toyed with the idea of calling the man over and offering the empty chair across the table, but there was something about him that set Radditz’s internal alarms ringing. He looked vaguely familiar, and Radditz had learned over the years that if you couldn’t place someone, especially a good-looking someone in a bar, sometimes it was best not to try, and just save yourself an awkward situation.

A few glasses later, Radditz had swallowed his pride, but not his curiosity. He’d watched the blue haired man finally find a table and sink down into it with such a look of relief that he’d almost cracked a smile himself, simply observing. With every sip from his mug, the man grew more and more relaxed, settling comfortably into his chair to watch the world spin around him. Radditz followed his gaze to the dance floor, where some moved with a semblance of talent while others simply engaged in an exhibitionist display that was only a few steps shy of an outright orgy.

Radditz swore under his breath as the man took a long pull from his mug. All this watching and not doing was driving him crazy.

*

Puar put down his glass, licking the last drops of alkabrew from his lips as he watched a pair of particularly provocative dancers get closer and closer to total nudity. He jumped in surprise as a full mug was plunked down in front of him, the liquid inside sloshing over the edges to spill down onto the table.

“On me.” Said the long haired Saiyan as he pulled out the other chair and dropped himself into it. Puar stared, stupidly, wondering first at the coincidence, and second at the possibility that there was some sort of hallucinogen in his alkabrew.

“Wha...What do you want?” He stuttered as the bigger man eyed him up and down, exactly as he had done the fake Bulma earlier that day.

“Just the pleasure of your company.” Radditz replied, a trace of sarcasm in his voice as he pushed the glass smoothly toward the other man. Inside, he was reeling. The second he’d gotten close to the table, he’d picked up the same intoxicating scent that the blue haired woman had been emanating at the presentation earlier in the day, and he’d instantly understood why this man had seemed so familiar. Up close they looked very similar, like they could be related, and he wondered if maybe they were of the same species. He’d lost track of the female, but applauded his luck in finding an equally attractive specimen of this rare people.

Puar sat frozen, unsure of what he should do. This man was dangerous. He _knew_ this man was dangerous, and yet he found that knowledge being overridden by broad shoulders and well-muscled thighs. Was this what Bulma had meant all those times she claimed that bad guys were irresistible?

“Don’t worry, it isn’t drugged.” Radditz bared his teeth in a Saiyan smile, noting Puar’s hesitation. If he’d known what effect it would have on the cat, perhaps he wouldn’t have done it. He reached over and grabbed the mug, taking a healthy swig before plonking it back down on the table. “See?” he said, “safe.”

“As if anything like that could down a Saiyan anyway.” Puar said, surprised by the venom in his voice as his wits finally surfaced. Misinterpreting the Saiyan’s earlier gesture, Puar bared his own teeth in a clear ‘don’t mess with me’ signal, which Radditz steadfastly ignored. If anything, it only made him try harder.

“Wanna dance?” He asked, jerking his head toward the dance floor as he leaned over his crossed forearms, the table shifting and groaning a little as it took on his weight.

“With an Empire soldier? No thanks, I’d rather not catch anything. Don’t you have a whore or something to be...playing with somewhere?” Puar snapped, on the defensive as the big man crowded his space. He felt trapped. That’s why his palms were sweating and his heart was beating harder than the bass pulsing through the club. Despite that, he applauded his own courage in stinging the soldier, however weak his remark had come across. He’d badly wanted to say _fucking_ , knew it was what the badass Saiyan in front of him would have said, but he just couldn’t. He blushed at even the thought of saying a word like that while those intense black eyes were looking at him.

“Pfft.” Radditz snorted, rearing back a little. His pride was a little stung at being lumped in with the rest of Frieza’s lot, even though he deserved it, on most counts. “Whores are for low class shit. We Saiyans seduce our women properly, like real men.” He felt his pulse quicken a little as a spark of anger lit in the smaller man’s eyes.

“I am _not_ a woman.” Puar ground out. No tits and a well-crafted fullness in his jeans. Wasn’t it obvious? Was it something about his mannerisms, or had spending a few hours as Bulma really wrought such a change in him?

“Izzat so?” the bigger man grinned, leaning in close to whisper the next words, barely audible above the pumping music. “Well baby, if you wanna be the man tonight, I ain’t got issues with being the chick.”

Puar stared, dumbfounded, for a full minute, unable to even blink as Radditz’s meaning sunk in. His face flushed hotly and he found himself reaching for the booze. He was going to need it.

*

*

“How did you like the fireworks?” That deep, gravely voice came over the speakers, hitting the two of them like a wave of power. He didn’t bother to introduce himself; they knew who he was. Bulma was the first to gain her courage.

“That was you? You could have KILLED us!” she shrieked, and Vengeance’s soft chuckle came through the static. “You son of a bitch, it’s not funny!”

“Oh, come off it, Blue. You didn’t die, so calm yourself.” He said it as though she didn’t have a right to be angry, because she’d lived, all the while ignoring the fact that if she’d died, she’d have been too dead to get angry at him. It was win-win for him, and that was all that mattered. “Besides, how the hell did you think I was going to get rid of the prototypes?”

“We...thought you were a tech. We thought you would steal them or something.” Krillin said, meekly. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. He wished he’d gotten away before this conversation ever started. Vengeance scared him a little, to be honest. He never, ever wanted to meet the man in person. He was probably a ten foot tall, fire-breathing, monk-smushing monster.

“Who the hell is this?” Vengeance demanded, his voice harsh, like the bark of an angry dog.

“Codename...Monk.” Krillin stuttered, spitting out the first thing he could think of. Bulma would give him hell for being too obvious later, but he didn’t care. Like any of these space monsters knew anything about him anyway. If they’d known anything about Earth, they would have caught on to Mr. Clean and Malibu Barbie in about three seconds flat. He’d be sure to throw that one in Bulma’s face later if she got on his case.

“Well, Codename Monk,” their contact spat the name out, derisively, “I don’t recall inviting you to the conversation.”

“I did,” Bulma snapped, “so deal with it, you prick.” Krillin’s eyes widened. Was it a good idea to piss this guy off? “What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? Blowing up the facility with us inside it? Blowing it up with all those workers? Do you have any idea how many people you killed today?”

“Of course I do.” He laughed again, as though her insults were like flies buzzing around a giant. “There were one hundred and eighty three workers there, including the research team, plus eleven guests who didn’t make it out. Lucky you, hmm? Now tell me, Blue, what would your little operation have been worth if the pioneering researchers on the project lived to share their secrets?”

“What was it worth anyway?” She demanded, slapping her palm against the table so hard that it hurt. He was just as bad as the people he was fighting against. “You blew everything up, so why did we even bother going in, if the computers were all going to be destroyed anyway?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Blue?” Vengeance asked, very matter of factly. Softly. Dangerously. “You went in and you took something out, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, just continued speaking in the same cold, factual manner. “I let you go in there because I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist taking a copy of the information for yourself, and you didn’t disappoint, Blue. But don’t, for one second, think that you can pull one over on _me_. You’ll build it, I know you’ll try, and I let you have it because I know you’re the only one who can.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” She hissed, trying to sound braver than she felt. Did he really know something about her? Something he could use against her and the other inhabitants of Red Station? Krillin patted her arm, reassuringly. She hadn’t noticed that she was shaking.

“Oh, but don’t I?” Vengeance asked. “So far you’ve played just as I suspected you would. And you’ll keep playing along, my dear, because I know how much you need me. If you cut off contact, then there’s no one on the inside to help you, and your little operation will be dead in the water.” They could practically hear him smiling, the smug, self-satisfied son of a bitch.

“Don’t act so superior, Vengeance.” This time, it was Krillin who spoke up, pushing all his courage into that one sentence. “You just said it yourself; you need Blue to figure out that headpiece. Without us, you’re just as fucked.” He went pale with the shock of what had just come out of his mouth.

“Blue, we will speak again.” The voice said after a moment of tense silence, his words clipped with anger. “And next time, you will leave this little shit out of it.” The com-link went dead, and they could tell he’d pretty much hung up on them.

“Nice one, Krillin.” Bulma smiled, shakily. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m not.” The bald monk replied. “That was a pretty dumb move on my part. Did you hear him? He must not know our location, because I’m sure if he did, he’d be pounding our doors in right now. He sounded pretty ready to kill us.”

“He’ll get over it. He needs us, he knows it, and now he knows that we know it.” Bulma grinned. “Now get out, I’ve got some blueprints to look at!”

*

*

Puar moaned as the Saiyan’s teeth caught his earlobe, shuddered at the soft whisper of breath in his ear. He’d known it was a bad idea to leave the club with the Saiyan, kept telling himself it was a bad idea during the cab ride to the hotel where Radditz had rented them a room, and even at that moment, with the other man’s lips on his neck, his mind positively screamed ‘bad idea’.

Funny thing, how what the mind considers a bad idea can seem oh so good to the body.

“Rad...ditz.” He panted, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the other’s thick, black mane of hair. He was so lost in the feelings that this new body produced, so wanting of the other man’s touch on his skin that he felt like he was losing his mind. He’d never done anything as crazy as this in his entire life; even walking unarmed into the research centre had seemed safer.

They’d learned each other’s names in the cab on the way over, between heated kisses and moans. Not that it seemed to matter to the Saiyan, of course, but Puar was beyond mortified by the idea that he’d gotten as far as he had, with a man whose name he didn’t even know. It was the only talking they’d done since hitting the dance floor together, aside from Radditz’s whispered _“Wanna go somewhere?”_

Puar had stood, silent and red faced in the lobby of the hotel while Radditz paid for their room, thankful at least that the Saiyan was paying for the whole night instead of just a few hours. He didn’t want anyone to think he was some cheap hooker. As it was, the poor shape-shifter kept thinking someone would recognize him somehow, call him out for his crass behaviour, and humiliate him completely in the lobby of a seedy hotel. He’d nearly made a run for it when the clerk handed Radditz a key card, but something in the Saiyan’s grin had stopped him in his tracks.

He was a new Puar, he told himself. He’d come this far, why not continue? Why not enjoy what the other man was offering, just for one night? No one knew him here, none of his friends knew where he was, and he would probably never see Radditz again. No one would ever have to find out. No one would ever have to know of this shameful moment.

So he’d followed the Saiyan upstairs and they’d locked the door behind them, and that’s how Puar had found himself in a strange bed, on his back, with a bloodthirsty killer sucking on his neck.

“Say my name again,” Radditz growled, scraping his teeth along Puar’s skin, before giving it a playful nip. “I’m gonna make you scream it before tonight is over.” He shifted his weight, straddling the smaller man’s hips so that his hands were free to roam. “Gonna make you scream till your throat is raw.” His hands were under Puar’s shirt, pushing the hemline up to reveal his belly and chest, before lifting it up and off over his head.

“Do you wear this everywhere you go?” Puar panted as he helped Radditz pull off his armour to reveal what little else he was wearing. “Who wears armour to a club?”

“Men who value their lives.” Radditz grinned, before leaning back down to trap his prey between arms like pillars. “Now shut up.” He said, pressing his mouth to the smaller man’s, coaxing pliant lips open with his tongue.

*

Puar limped across the room, shutting the bathroom door behind him as Radditz dozed peacefully. He lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of the tub, wincing at the slight pain it caused him. Shit. So much for being the ‘man’ tonight.

He stretched his arms out, feeling the pull of sore muscles, and pushed the lock on the door beside him. Gratefully, he allowed his body to shift back into its natural state, hoping that the ‘pop’ sound wouldn’t disturb the slumbering Saiyan. It was four in the morning, local time, and he’d left his own ship around eight. He’d never held such a complex form for so long, and it was wearing on him. Everything ached, though he couldn’t blame that entirely on shapeshifting, he thought, as he rubbed his sore behind. Not only had he been the bottom, but Radditz had a bit of a thing for spanking, and Puar knew that his humanoid shape looked a lot tougher than it actually was. Things had gotten a bit rough.

Puar squirmed, a bit embarrassed to admit to himself how much he’d liked it. Of course, that didn’t make sense, as he’d already admitted it plenty to Radditz.

Desolately, Puar floated up toward the mirror, placing one kitty-paw against it as he looked himself over. He sighed and hung his head. No one thought a blue cat was sexy. Radditz certainly wouldn’t. The big Saiyan probably ate cats for dinner.

“Hey,” speak of the devil, “What are you doing in there?” Radditz’s voice came through the door, just as his fist connected with the panel in a knock loud enough to startle the poor cat.

“I’ll be, uh, right out.” Puar stuttered, trying to calm his racing heart after the surprise. After a moment of concentration, he was able to force himself back into his man shape with a telltale ‘pop’. He hastily pulled on the jeans he’d left on the bathroom floor, wincing as the stiff material rubbed against his crotch. He really needed more practice with those parts. He opened the door to find Radditz blocking his exit, hands braced on either side of the door frame.

“Hey, you okay in here? I heard a weird sound.” He leaned in, nose just a few inches from Puar’s. He was completely naked, cock hanging heavily between his legs. The smaller man took a step backward, blush staining his cheeks.

“I...uh...” he stammered, unwilling to share his secret. “I...um...farted.” To his surprise, the Saiyan broke out in a wide grin, a soft chuckle escaping from somewhere deep in his chest. _Oh god,_ Puar thought, _If he lets one rip too, I’ll just die right here._

Luckily, Radditz had a little more class than that. Just a little bit. A very little bit. “Come back to bed,” he murmured, reaching for Puar and pulling the shapeshifter toward him. “Why are you wearing pants?” He asked, running his finger down the strip of short blue fur that ran from the base of Puar’s skull down beneath his jeans to his tailbone. He nipped at one ear.

“I have to go.” The cat said, desperately wishing it wasn’t true. He could feel Radditz’s hardness against his belly, remembered the other man sliding in and out of him, and felt himself go stiff. “I really, really have to go.” He said again, as though to convince himself.

“Puar,” Radditz whispered in his ear, his big hands sliding over bare skin, pressing their bodies together, “stay.”

“I can’t...I really can’t.” Puar untangled himself, feeling the ache of transformation once more. He was exhausted and didn’t think he could hold this body together much longer, especially if Radditz talked him back into bed. He cringed at the thought of what might happen if he were to transform back into his natural state with Radditz inside him. Ouch. “My shipmates...they’ll be wondering where I am.”

Radditz relented, stepping back with a sigh, and watched sullenly as Puar collected the rest of his clothing and dressed himself. He wanted the blue-haired man to stay the night. He wanted to fuck him again, hard, right now. He wanted to wake up beside this stranger and fuck him again in the dim light of the morning, probably – maybe - more gently. Damn sentiments.

“Maybe we could meet up again.” Radditz said, surprising himself, as Puar was pulling on his jacket. “You know, if we’re ever on the same rock again.” He grinned lazily, trying not to seem too desperate, but the sway of his tail gave him away. Puar nodded, thinking about how unlikely it was that they’d ever see each other again. How unlikely, at least, that Radditz would ever see _this_ him again. “Is there a way I could contact you? Do you have a com-number you could give me?”

Against his better judgement, Puar said that he did.

 

*

                Bulma twisted in agony, her body screaming out for more. She could feel his hands sliding over her skin, warm, rough palms cupping her curves, fingers splayed over hot flesh. “I love you, Blue,” he said, and she knew she was dreaming, but she didn’t care. She missed being touched like this, feeling the warmth of a body next to hers, the pressure of one on top of her.

                “Yamcha,” she sighed, arching her back as he cupped her breasts, thumbs gliding over her nipples, teasing them to points.

                “Codename Sable is dead.” Her companion said, in Vengeance’s voice, and she knew that Yamcha was gone. She opened her eyes to look at Vengeance, hoping to get a glimpse of his face, but all she saw were shadows, a sort of human-shaped mist whose hands had slid down to her hips and under her bottom, to lift her into his lap. She felt him, hard between her legs, and suddenly it seemed absurd to her that she was about to make it home with a shadow man. But then again, he was solid in all the right places. She had the evidence of that throbbing against her inner thigh.

                “Vengeance,” she moaned, tossing her head back and placing her hands on his shoulders.

                “Kindly get the fuck off me.” He said, and Bulma’s head snapped forward. She found herself staring into familiar black eyes.

                “V...Vegeta!” She was surprised, but she didn’t move. He snarled at her, lip curling up on one side in a sneer, but he didn’t say anything else. Instead he shoved her backward, quickly following her down so that he pinned her body with his own. She felt his skin, hot against her own, despite the fact that he’d been fully clothed when he first appeared. He pressed himself against her, spreading her legs with a knee so that one hand could slide between them. She gasped to feel his palm cupping the damp flesh there, slipping one then two fingers inside. Bulma squirmed against his hand, trying to clamp her legs shut around it, hampered by the presence of his body between her knees. He placed his other hand on her belly to stop her moving, but it only intensified the pressure that was building inside of her and she writhed against him.

                Bulma moaned as he withdrew his fingers, opening her eyes to watch as he stretched himself over her once more. She spread her legs for him as he settled between her thighs and arched as she felt the slow, sweet intrusion of his body into hers. She desperately wanted him to say something to her, maybe say her name, even though she knew that he wasn’t aware of it. She wanted him to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, but even as she wished it, she knew it wouldn’t happen. He’d only ever said the one thing to her, and she didn’t know how his voice would sound saying anything else. Even in dreams, reality often trumped her fantasy.

                “Say something to me.” She begged as he pushed the last inch of himself into her. He grunted, drawing out for another thrust. “Please.” She moaned as he slid home again. She didn’t know why it was so important that he say something, why she wanted so badly to hear him say something other than _Kindly get the fuck off me,_ but it was, and so she lowered herself to pleading, as he pounded into her.

                Vegeta looked down at her, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as his hips kept up their pace. He leaned down, to whisper in her ear and she tensed, waiting for the words she so desired. “Kindly get me the fuck off.” His words were punctuated by a forceful thrust that drew a gasp of pleasure from her lungs.

                *

                Bulma awoke to the sound of the ship’s outer hatch hissing shut. Vague images of her dream still floated at the forefront of her mind, and she was a little embarrassed to discover how wet her panties had become. Blearily, she swiped a hand across her eyes, pushing her hair back, and squinted through the darkness at her alarm clock. 4:48 am. Son of a bitch, she hoped that was Puar.     


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, Vegeta would have been taller. *sigh* Oh well, at least he’s probably still taller than me. A girl can dream.

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                Author’s notes: I just wanted to say thanks again to everyone who’s reviewed, especially those of you who continue to review as each chapter comes out. Your kindness keeps me going. I’m also glad I didn’t scare anyone away with Radditz/Puar lovin’. Well, maybe I did and they were just too damaged to say anything. Please don’t sue me for your psychiatric expenses! :D

                We’re also jumping back in time again for one chapter. This one takes place, chronologically, after chapter 2. Happy reading!

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THREE YEARS AGO

                Thank God for foresight, Bulma thought as she popped the top on a tin of pea soup. She’d teased her father mercilessly for insisting that the ship be well stocked for any eventuality, but now she was glad for the ridiculously large food and water supplies he’d encapsulated and stored away. They had a good five months worth of food if they were careful, and Bulma was confident they’d be able to make contact with someone before their situation became dire. She looked around the ship, trying to avoid thinking about what they would trade for supplies when that situation arose. None of them had any money, not that paper Earth currency would be likely to have value in a universe where Earth no longer existed. Bulma’s mother had a diamond wedding ring and a pearl necklace, but other than that, none of them had really thought to take along any valuable possessions. Bulma and her father had their brains and their ideas, but the promise of unheard-of machinery from two unknowns wouldn’t buy them lunch. The name “Capsule Corporation” had no credence out in space and all the wealth that they had amassed in their lives had been destroyed in a matter of hours. It was a humbling thought.

                Everyone groaned as Bulma upended the can of soup, letting it plop into the pot with the rest. They’d been eating pea soup pretty steadily for the past few weeks and everyone was getting a little sick of it. Why had she let her father pack the food stores? Of course he hadn’t thought to include any variety. “Eat it or starve!” Krillin crowed, coming to her rescue as she stirred the sludge. “No choice you guys!” Truth was, she really didn’t want to eat it herself either. Just about the only one who hadn’t complained was her mother, the incurable optimist.  

                “I’ll go get Chichi,” Yamcha said, disappearing down the hallway toward the bunks. Bulma and Krillin shared an uncomfortable look. Chichi had barely eaten in the past three days, and had done nothing but sleep, day and night. At first, she’d been almost fanatic in her desire to take care of everyone, taking on the jobs of cooking and cleaning, always doing something, as if scrubbing a toilet could make her forget her loss, make it go away. As the weeks went on, however, she’d done less and less, retreating more into whatever solitude she could find on the packed ship. It was going on close to a month since Earth had been destroyed, and everyone was beginning to crack a little bit.

                Bulma felt the weight of everyone’s misery most of all. She blamed herself for their inability to get back to Earth in time, even though the rational part of her mind knew that going back to Earth wouldn’t have made a difference. They’d just all be dead with the rest of humanity. The irrational part of her brain thought that might have been much better than where they were now.

                “You okay?” Krillin was at her side, placing a pile of bowls on the counter beside the small stove. “You look kind of spaced out.” He grimaced, “Pardon the bad pun. Completely unintentional, I swear.”

                “Just lost in thought.”

                “Bulma,” Krillin frowned, reading her all too well. “It wasn’t your fault. You know that, and no one blames you for it.”She bit back tears, looking at his sweet, earnest face. Krillin was a good friend, probably the best she’d ever had. He might not have been strong like Goku or handsome like Yamcha, but unlike those two, he was always there. “The only way to prevent it would have been to predict the perversions of Roshi and Oolong,” he twisted his lips into a sour face, “and I don’t want to meet the person who understands what’s going through those brains.”

                Bulma smiled, wishing, not for the first time, that she wasn’t so shallow. If she were smart, she’d snap Krillin up in a second. That’d sure show Yamcha. The ever-squabbling pair were on their fourth break up since Earth’s destruction, and this time she was sure it was for good. Nevermind that her mother assured her it was all just the stress, and that once things settled down they’d put their differences aside. Nevermind that she’d been just as sure the other three times.

                “Soup’s on, gang!” Krillin had moved on, and was pulling bowls out of the cupboard, while Puar floated over to grab up some spoons. He handed a ladle to Bulma, who began dishing up the greyish sludge.

                “Oh my, what’s this blinking light over here?” Mrs. Briefs chirped, just as everyone was sitting down to eat. Bulma looked over in surprise, dripping spoon halfway to her mouth. She dropped the utensil without a word, splattering her father with soup as she scrambled from her chair.

                “It’s a transmission signal.” She said, almost reverently as she darted toward the console. “We’re being hailed!”

                “Who is it? Who is it?” Yamcha stood up, pushing his chair back. He stopped, frozen, unsure what to do next. Everyone sat staring, dumbfounded and hopeful.

                “Like I know!” Bulma’s fingers trembled as she flipped the receiver switch that would put the call through all the ship’s speakers. Static blared through, making everyone wince. Bulma deflated a little, thinking that the machinery was malfunctioning.

                “Hello, Earth survivors.” Said a deep, monotonous voice that made everyone jump.

                “Er...Hi.” Bulma said, into the microphone.

                “I am sending you the coordinates of our space station,” the voice rattled on, ignoring her greeting, and Bulma felt her cheeks burn, realizing that she had most likely greeted a computer generated recording. “Come at once.”

                The voice cut out and the harsh static once again assaulted their ears. The transmission light had gone out, so Bulma hastily shut of the speakers. When she turned around, everyone was staring at her. “Well?” She asked. “What do we do?”

*

*

                Goku’s head snapped up, so surprised that he dropped his fishing pole off the dock. It landed in the water with a splash, soaking young Gohan, who had been leaning over his own rod, peering into the deep water in the hopes of seeing a fish. The boy spluttered in surprise, completely unaware of the sudden uneasiness that had overtaken his father.

                “Da-ad.” Gohan chastised, wiping his face on his coat sleeve before turning, with a frown, to face Goku. Anything he was about to say was cut off, seeing the closed look of concentration on his father’s features. He’d never before seen such a look. Not even his mom ever looked that scary.

                “C’mon Gohan.” Goku jumped up, reaching down to pull his son to his feet. “We have to go now.” He whistled for Kintoun and the little cloud was there in an instant. He set the child upon it, and in and seconds later they were all high in the air. Goku scanned the sky as they flew, wishing for better vision so that he could see beyond the stars and look at the multitude of powers surrounding Earth. Ordinarily, he would have been excited to feel such strength, but there was a sense of malice in it that made his skin crawl.

                “Kami!” he shouted, bursting through the highest layer of clouds, Kintoun and Gohan close behind him. He landed on the lookout with a thunk, his weighted boots hitting the tiles. “Kami, are you here?”

                “He is here, Goku.” Mr. Popo appeared at the door of Kami’s dwelling, “But he is not alone. Come with me.” He turned, gesturing the young man to follow. Goku did so, with Kintoun chugging alongside him, Gohan still atop the cloud.

                “It’s okay, son.” Goku smiled, patting Gohan’s shoulder, allowing his hand to rest there as they followed Kami’s strange servant through ornate hallways. Goku’s ears pricked, hearing shouts from deep within the Guardian’s sanctuary. “Mr. Popo?” He questioned, uncertainly. The other man did not seem concerned to hear the sounds of bitter fighting.

                “Do not worry, Goku. They will do each other no harm.” Popo said, leading the way into Kami’s little garden. He cleared his throat to alert the two green men to the presence of more guests.

                “Piccolo?!” Goku shouted in surprise, taking up a defensive stance in front of his son. The tall demon glared at him for a few seconds, before turning back to the Guardian of Earth.

                “I will not fuse with you, old man.” He snarled, baring sharp teeth at the ancient Kami.

                “You must.” Kami insisted, his voice powerful even though he did not raise it in the slightest. “It is the only way that you will stand a chance against this enemy. You and I must fuse, and together we will fight alongside Goku to protect the Earth.”

                “You’re forgetting something Kami,” Piccolo sneered. “ _You_ are the Guardian of Earth, not I. Why should I care what happens?”

                “Piccolo, do not be foolish.” Kami snapped, showing temper for the first time Goku had ever seen. “You might not care what happens to the Earth, but if it is destroyed, then I will die. And if I die, then so too will you.”

                “And if the Earth is destroyed anyway?” Piccolo challenged.

                “If we fuse, I will no longer be guardian of Earth. The planet could be shattered into infinite specs of dust, and if you got away, you would come to no harm.” Kami said. “But of course, you have no way off of this planet, so if it is destroyed then we’ll all die anyway.” Piccolo growled at these last words, whipping away from Kami with a whirl of his cape.

                “So you’re telling me that if we fuse,” he said, turning toward Goku, “and if I work with this joker here, we’ll be able to defeat these invaders?”

                “We have a better chance than if you and I remain separate.” Kami said, tiredly, as though he had repeated the same thing a hundred times before. Piccolo narrowed his eyes, taking a hard look at Goku, before turning and striding back toward Kami.

                “What happens to me when we fuse?”

                “You and I will be no more. In our places will stand a hybrid of the two of us. The very best of us. Your strength and courage, my wisdom and knowledge...” Kami trailed off as the first ship streaked past the lookout, like a comet heading toward the ground. Everyone could feel the power emanating from inside the craft, and felt their hearts stop at the knowledge that a hundred more were on their way.

                “We keep my name,” Piccolo said, at last, “and you have yourself a deal.”

*

*

                Bulma wiped sweaty palms along the sides of her thighs as they waited for the space station’s airlock to open. Yamcha squeezed her hand, and she smiled over at him, trying to look brave. They were “on” again, but she wasn’t about to let him be a big strong man while she cowered in a corner somewhere. Everyone was feeling antsy, excited to get out of the ship that had been their prison, but also nervous because they had no idea what was awaiting them on the other side of that door. In the week it had taken them to reach the coordinates they had been given, they hadn’t received a single other transmission, not a single clue as to what they were getting themselves into.

                The scientific faction of Dr. Briefs and his daughter were beside themselves at the idea of docking with a real space station, the stuff of science fiction novels! They’d spent hours discussing the technicalities of life support systems and propulsion mechanics. Yamcha, Puar and Krillin, who had all seen too many movies, were convinced that they were headed into an alien trap to be sold into intergalactic slavery. Roshi and Oolong were okay with that, so long as their new alien overlords were also looking for sexual slaves. Mrs. Briefs was excited about making new friends, and Chichi hadn’t really offered an opinion, but she’d gotten out of bed, which was definitely an improvement in the eyes of her friends.

                A buzzer went off and the ship’s computer informed them that it was safe to open the doors. The atmosphere on the other side was now breathable. They all jumped as the ship’s door cracked open with a hiss, followed by a mechanical whir as it folded down to provide a ramp down to the floor.

                Bulma was the first out, agreed to beforehand as the leader of the expedition. Krillin, the strongest warrior aboard the ship, was close behind. Yamcha, only slightly bitter about that, came next, and when no battle erupted, Chichi, Dr. Briefs and his wife trotted out with Master Roshi. Puar and Oolong shifted into the beefiest looking forms they could imagine, and held up the rear.

                “Hello.” Said the biggest man Bulma had ever seen. Not only did he tower over her by several feet, but his broad chest and shoulders seemed to block out the light from above. His shocking orange mohawk said “dangerous” but his gentle blue eyes were full of kindness. “Welcome to our home. My name is Sixteen.” Bulma recognized his voice immediately, as the one that had contacted them. She’d thought he was a computer at the time.

                “Thank you Sixteen,” she said, standing up straight in an attempt not to appear so puny. He looked human, but she’d never seen so massive a man in her life. “My name is Bulma. This is Krillin, Yamcha, Chichi” she pointed at each of her friends in turn, “those are my parents, that’s Master Roshi, Puar, and Oolong.” She hoped she’d gotten the last two right. She couldn’t remember who’d transformed into what, but the one on the left seemed to be losing control of its transformation, so she assumed it must be that lazy pig.

                “Doctor Briefs,” Sixteen said, shaking her father’s hand in his big paw. “My father will be very pleased to see that you have arrived.”

                “Your father?” Briefs, cocked his head, almost dislodging the kitten that clung to his shoulder. It mewled its anger, and Sixteen smiled, reaching over to scratch it behind the ear with one finger. To everyone’s surprise, the temperamental little kitty did not bite him as it did most strangers, but simply sat and purred its contentment.

                “Yes, his father.” A new voice said, and all heads turned to see an old man waiting at the doorway, white hair framing a worn and wrinkled face. Two shockingly blue eyes peered out at the group. “Been a while, Briefs.” He said.

                “Dr. Gero!” Bulma blurted out, recognizing the old man in an instant. “But you’re dead!”

                “Am I, dear? Well, that’s news to me.” He cocked his head and studied her. “My, my, is this little Bulma?” He asked, coming forward to study them all. “You’ve certainly changed. Last I saw you, you were about this tall,” he levelled his hand at just below chest height, “and always begging to come along into the labs with your father and I.”

                “Don’t tell me you’ve been out here this whole time, Gero!” Dr. Briefs sputtered, looking around the room in amazement. “Why, when you disappeared, we all thought you were dead for sure! Not a single soul knew where you’d gone.”

                “I needed a place to work on my experiments in peace.” Dr. Gero said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “After the whole of the scientific community turned its back on me, cast me out, called me mad...” he trailed off, muttering a little to himself, before continuing. “I built a ship.” He said, simply. “I came here and built Red Station.” He patted the wall, proudly, “And I was able to work without judgement, to create my masterpieces.” He caught the crestfallen look on Bulma’s face. “Why, you didn’t think you were the _first_ , did you?” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Your work does your genius credit, my dear, but the men of the universe at large have been travelling through space for centuries now. Come now, stay with us a while, perhaps you will learn something of real genius.” He turned, beckoning everyone to follow.

                “Your Masterpieces.” Dr. Briefs said, slowly, refusing to move. “You don’t mean...”

                “Of course I do, Briefs.” Gero spat, turning back to face his one-time colleague and friend. “I will not answer to your foolish sense of morals. Earth is gone, and with her, her judgements. Out here, I have been free to do as I please, and as a result, I have created something which has never before been seen in all of the known universe. Show them, Sixteen.”

                The big man obediently popped open one of the two big green panels of what they had all assumed to be chest armour. He pulled it wide to reveal the circuitry beneath, and both Bulma and her father gasped in surprise. “I am Artificial Human number Sixteen.” Said the big robot. “I was activated four years, three months, two days, nine hours, seven minutes, and fifty nine point five seconds ago, according to my sensors.”

                “He’s fully automated,” Gero said proudly as Sixteen closed his panel, “and fully autonomous. He thinks for himself and learns like a human, and is even capable of displaying basic emotions. Not perfect, but I am getting closer. Perhaps one day I will show you my plans for Seventeen and Eighteen. Organic androids are the newest challenge.” He frowned at thoughtfully at Sixteen. “These machine parts are never quite right.”

*

*

                Goku groaned as he was hit with a blast from the enemy, throwing him backward into the side of the mountain. He and Piccolo hadn’t had any problems defeating the first wave of soldiers, but then stronger ones came, and in greater numbers, and they seemed to be targeting the two Earth warriors specifically. Breathing had become painful – he suspected a few broken ribs – and his vision didn’t seem as steady as it once had been. For the first time in his life, Goku had an inkling of the real meaning of the word “hopeless.”

                There were so many enemy soldiers, Goku thought, and even if they managed to subdue the ones here, what about the people in other cities or countries, on other continents? He was beginning to regret his decision to take Gohan fishing today, but at least took a little solace in the knowledge that Chichi was safely away. He’d left Gohan at Kami’s lookout with Mister Popo, but knew that even the most unreachable place on Earth wouldn’t be safe if he and Piccolo failed in their task.

                Goku screamed, calling forth for just a little more power, just a little more strength, and felt ki pooling in his muscles. He leapt back into battle, knocking back opponent after opponent with a savage efficiency that scared even him.

*

                “Sir, we’ve managed to subdue and capture the last two power points.” The soldier said into his scouter as he dumped the big green body into his ship next to the unconscious black haired man. “Nobody told us one of ‘em was Namekian, though.” He grunted, picking up the surprisingly heavy body of a child and tossing it in, too. “And we’ve got us a surprise too. Some kid, came outta nowhere, power level screamin’ high. Don’t know how we missed him in our preliminary scans of the planet, but he took out Burks before I could knock him out.”

                “Burks? Shit. That guy owed me a hundred. Snag me something worthwhile off ‘is corpse. And bring the kid back too, I guess.” Said the voice on the other end. “Maybe we can sell ‘im or something. Put a little duff in our own pockets.”

                “Already on board, sir.” The soldier responded, locking the cage on the three battered bodies, before heading toward the cockpit. “All set.” He told the pilot, who started the ship up as his comrade settled in for the flight.

*

*

                “Prince Vegeta, I have bad news.” Nappa’s voice crackled over the radio, forcefully tearing Vegeta from his thoughts. He reached out and hit the com button with one gloved finger.

                “What is it?”

                “Earth has been destroyed. We are too late to retrieve Kakarott.”

                “Shit.” Was all that the prince said. Then, a moment later: “Do you know if he’s dead?”

                “We are currently unaware. Due to his presumed power level, it is likely that he has been taken captive and will be sold as a slave, or pressed into service in Frieza’s lower ranks.”

                “Does Radditz know yet?”

                “Yes, my Lord. I do not think he is taking it with your sense of grace, sir.” Nappa said, tongue in cheek. The things that Radditz had spewed upon finding out that his little brother was likely either dead or destined for slow torture as a slave were such that could shock even the most seasoned foul-mouth.

                “What is the nearest habitable planet?” Vegeta asked, frowning at the walls of his space pod. He had been hoping to get to Radditz’s estranged brother first. If Frieza found out what he’d come into possession of, there was no question that he’d use it to gain leverage over the remaining Saiyans. It was no secret that Vegeta yearned for the resurrection of his once mighty race.

                “Arlia, Sir.” Nappa said, consulting his computer. “Rife with civil war at this moment.”

                “We are changing course, Nappa. Send the coordinates to our ships. We’re going to Arlia for a little while, before we continue in our search for Kakarott’s fate.”

                “What are we going to do there, sir?” Nappa’s distaste was obvious. “It’s a backwater mudball, inhabited by overgrown bugs.”

                “Don’t be dense, Nappa,” Vegeta chided, his voice chilly. “We’re going to release a little pent-up frustration. That’s all.”

*

*

                Gohan whimpered, hugging his knees to his chest in an attempt to warm up. He noticed how filthy his pants were, and poked morosely at a hole in one knee, an action which drew his attention to his dirt-encrusted fingernails. His mother was absolutely going to go ballistic when she saw him. He looked around, hoping for a place to clean up, but the only thing he saw was a toilet. At least, he thought it was a toilet. Either way, he wasn’t going near the slimy, germ covered thing. Not for a million bucks! His mother would have a fit if she saw it.

                Snuggling tighter into a little ball, Gohan took the opportunity to study the room’s other occupants again. They were all other children, though he appeared to be the only Earthling present. He’d tried speaking to some of them, but none of them spoke the same language as he did. Some were able to communicate with each other, but most were left, alone and afraid, with no clue as to what was going on. Gohan bit back a sniffle. He missed his mommy and daddy, and wanted them to come take him away from this place.

                Suddenly, the cell door opened with a crash that startled all the children and sent the closest ones scampering from the gate. Two squat, burly creatures stepped in, each brandishing a nasty looking club in one hand. They wore guns strapped to their thighs. Gohan thought they looked like rocks. Piles of rocks, held together by grey moss, to make the shape of a person. A third creature, tall and willowy with shocking green hair, stepped in. This one carried a large needle and a bottle of foamy, purple liquid, labelled in some script that Gohan couldn’t read.

                One of the burlies grabbed the child nearest him, a frightened little girl, or so Goahn assumed, and held her while the doctor one jabbed her with the needle. The second burly grabbed her and led her out the door while the first selected another child to be injected. It wasn’t long before it was Gohan’s turn, and he felt the burn of the needle in one arm, while tough, calloused fingers clamped down on his shoulders. He was led out, stumbling as his vision blurred, by the second burly, who he belatedly realized was female. She was gentler with him than the other one had been, her tough hands not squeezing his tender flesh, but supporting him as he teetered his way out the door and into another room, where a new creature waited. This one was largely obscured by its white coat and surgeon’s mask, and the purple injection had made Gohan’s brain go fuzzy, but he thought for sure that this last creature was very furry and very blue. It made a funny, calming sound in the back of its throat as Gohan’s eyelids began to droop.

*

                Gohan awoke with a pounding headache, and a vicious itch on the crown of his head. He reached up with his left hand to scratch, yelping as his fingernails caught on something and came away bloody. Panicking, he reached up again, eyes widening as he felt the bald patch of shaved hair, and the lump where they’d stitched his skin together.

                “Hey, be careful! You’re gonna rip your head open if you don’t watch it.” A voice said, and Gohan’s head shot up, surprised that he understood the words. He looked, uncomprehending, at the boy who’d spoken, sure that he’d already tried to talk to that very same child, without success. “What, you stupid or something?” The kid jeered, seeing Gohan’s open-mouthed stare.

                “No,” Gohan shot back, regaining some of his composure. “But I couldn’t understand you before. And you couldn’t understand me.”           

                “That’s ‘cause you didn’t have your Standard chip yet. It makes you understand.”

                “How?”

                “I dunno, I look like some kinda science guy?” The boy rolled his eyes, scoffing at this bumpkin’s naiveté. “It just does.”

*

*

                “It interacts with the speech center of your brain,” Dr. Gero said, as he dotted some antibacterial cream onto Krillin’s scalp. “Your brain is like an organic computer, and this little chip is like a disk full of information. Or a software program.” He added, seeing blank looks from many of the room’s occupants.  “It installs Galactic Standard onto your little brain, so that you can speak and understand the official language of the Empire. Everyone has one.” He patted the back of his own head, hidden beneath the tall black hat he always wore. “Your turn, missy.” He gestured to Bulma, who’d placed a hand protectively over her hair

                “Do I really have to?” She whined, really balking at the idea of shaving a patch of her head.

                “It’s not so bad, Bulma,” Krillin put in. “Look how small my cut is,” he turned so she could see the row of small, surprisingly neat stitches. Sixteen was a delicate hand with the needle and thread.

                “You won’t even feel it.” Puar said, and Oolong nodded. Gero had pulled out some pretty powerful anaesthetic, surprisingly potent for a localized painkiller.

                “Peer pressure.” Yamcha said simply, pointing to his own little bald patch. “We could always shave something cool into your hair. Like a lightning bolt.”

                “Err, how about no.” Bulma groaned, but obediently hopped up onto the table, cringing as she heard the electric hair trimmer whir to life. What was a little hole in her skull, compared to the loss of a patch of her lustrous hair?

                “Or we could shave your whole head.” Yamcha continued, “It’d be hot.” He grinned, but Bulma only glared. If he kept it up, soon they’d be on breakup number five.

*

*

                Vegeta watched from the comfort of his pod as Arlia began to crack and crumble. Though he was too far away to hear them, he could feel their screams and their terror, crawling across his skin like so many maggots. There was a familiar emptiness inside him, a deep black pit that swallowed all the pain he caused, swallowed all the guilt and feeling so he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

                What foolish creatures they had been, Atla and his Lemlia, to trust in the Saiyans for their salvation. He imagined them embracing each other as their planet collapsed around them, and he wondered if they knew that he had caused it. He wondered if they were just happy to see each other one last time. He thought that they must have been happy to die, so long as they were together. Such was the sentimentality of weak creatures. Of course, he did not understand it. And of course, he did not understand why such knowledge seemed to ease the black hole inside of him.

                Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Vegeta hit the comm button and ordered Nappa to send them all to Frieza’s nearest outpost. It was time they resumed their hunt for Kakarott.

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                Well folks, that’s it for now. Thanks for reading, and please do consider leaving a review! I really would like to know how I’m doing!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, there would have been more shirtlessness. All shirtless, all the time.

                Author’s notes: Thanks to all those who’ve reviewed. You really have no idea how much it means to have people read something I’ve written, and tell me they like it. Thanks so much for the kind words. Hugs for everybody!!

                And to answer a question that came up: The Standard chip is not a universal translation device. It only teaches you “Standard” which is the common language of the universe, and exists only because it’s quicker than having to teach everyone to speak Standard the normal way. Additional languages still have to be learned the hard way, as the chip cannot help you understand languages other than Standard. Hope that banishes any confusion that might have come up. :D

                Also, jumping around in time again. This chapter follows chapter 4, chronologically. If you’ll remember, the scenes immediately leading up to this one include Puar and Radditz’s encounter, as well as Bulma/Krillin’s conversation with Vengeance, and Bulma’s naughty dream.

 

PRESENT DAY

               

                Bulma sighed in relief when she heard the ship’s hatch close, followed by the quiet squeak that meant Puar had floated into something, not quite used to the sudden darkness. She’d expected him back hours ago and had begun to worry. Benthal Six was an ugly, sad, angry planet with a population to match. Most were transient workers, slaves really, who were there to work the mines. Then there were the prostitutes, of course, there to work the miners. There was little pleasure to be had on a rock like this, that didn’t involve drink or drugs or violence. Most involved all three.

                She smiled, seeing his tiny shadow float by her open door, illuminated only by the weak track lighting that lined every hallway. “Rough night?” She called out, quietly, so as not to wake Krillin. Of course, she couldn’t know that he lay awake as well. Puar let out a surprised squeak, obviously not expecting to be caught.

                “Sorry Bulma,” he said, floating into her doorway. “Did I wake you?”

                “No, couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement today, I guess.” She lied. “You okay?”

                “Oh, I’m fine.” Puar said, but she could hear the tightness in his little voice, even higher in pitch than usual. “Just...tired.” He swallowed hard, desperately hoping she wouldn’t press him for details of his evening out. “It took a long time to find a cab back to port. Busy night out there.”

                “I’m glad you’re back Puar.” Bulma said, snuggling into her pillow. “Get some sleep, okay? And close my door on your way out, will ya?”

                “Night, Bulma.” He said, grateful that there was to be no interrogation. He hit the door-close button embedded in the frame and the panel slid out and shut with a soft whoosh.

*

                Gohan twiddled his pencil between two fingers as he struggled to translate a paragraph from Standard into Saiyan. He’d been studying all morning, curled up with his books in the corner of the training room so that Nappa could keep an eye on him. The big Saiyan had found that young Gohan could not be trusted to study by himself. The boy had a certain flair for becoming distracted, not unlike his uncle Radditz.

                “Why do I even have to learn this?” Gohan whined, allowing his head to slump back so that he looked straight up at the ceiling. He blinked against the bright lights but did not turn away.

                “It is a part of your heritage.” Nappa said patiently, not even panting despite the fact that he was in the middle of what most people would have considered a strenuous workout.

                “Isn’t there a chip or something that will teach me this?” He snapped his head back forward, just in time to watch Vegeta stroll into the training room, clad in his workout gear. Gohan sat up straighter, trying to recall if he’d done anything bad lately. Misbehaviour meant he’d be the Prince’s punching bag, but good behaviour meant he’d get to watch Nappa be beaten to a pulp. He hoped his tutor wouldn’t let on that he’d been complaining.

                “There is no such chip.” Vegeta answered the question curtly, dashing Gohan’s hopes as he took a stance opposite his former tutor and bodyguard. A lecture was forthcoming, as it always was when the prince caught him doing something disappointing. “Frieza has no need for dead languages, boy.” Nappa crouched low, preparing for the onslaught that he knew was coming. Vegeta made his move, lightning fast, and knocked Nappa into the wall without the slightest hint of effort. “Frieza has no need for anything of intellectual value, cultural significance,” Vegeta continued emotionlessly as he watched Nappa pull himself up, “because you see, cub, he is as foolish as he is arrogant.” The prince jumped back, easily dodging a fist the size of his head, crouched low and struck out with his own foot, striking Nappa behind the left knee. “You’re not trying very hard today, Nappa.” He said, frowning, as the other Saiyan’s leg buckled. Nappa grinned, suddenly surging from the ground with a tremendous roar, hoping to catch the prince off guard.

                His tactic worked, momentarily surprising Vegeta so that Nappa was able to land a punch to the younger man’s jaw. Vegeta staggered but regained his footing quickly enough to block Nappa’s next move. “Frieza knows nothing of us.” Vegeta snarled, unexpectedly resuming his lecture as he smashed a fist into Nappa’s stomach, knocking the wind right out of him. “He does not care to know. And one day it will be his downfall.” Vegeta took a step toward Nappa, who was bent low, arms clasped around his midsection, wheezing, and grabbed his head, forcing it down as he brought his knee upward to collide, breaking an already crooked nose. Gohan winced to hear the crack, to see the blood pour down Nappa’s face, but the big man only grinned as his prince stalked away without another word, presumably to attend to other matters. He was like that, Gohan had learned; completely unfazed by violence. It was normal for Vegeta to show up, beat the living hell out of whoever happened to be unlucky enough to make eye contact, and stroll away without even a backwards glance, off to dinner or a nap or a meeting with Frieza, whatever he had on the list for that day.

Nappa spat a gob of pinkish slime and laughed at the colour of it. Vegeta must have knocked a few of his teeth loose, too. Gohan grimaced, not at the idea of injury, but at the action. His mother would have had a fit if anyone spat on her floor. She didn’t even like it when people spit outside on the ground. But then again, as he watched the bald giant wipe his bloody nose on his bare arm, Gohan had the idea that his mother would probably have problems with about ninety percent of what Nappa did. The only thing they’d agree on, he was sure, was their unexplainable compulsion to cram his head as full of knowledge as they could.

“Ahh, that hurts like a bitch.” Nappa wore a self-satisfied smile, though it was lopsided with swelling. It wouldn’t even take an hour in the regeneration tank to fix that nastiness, and Nappa would emerge stronger than he’d gone in. Not much for such a minor injury, but his power level would still climb. It was a trick of theirs, one of the many Saiyan secrets that Frieza had never bothered to learn. They’d beat the living shit out of each other, push harder and harder, nearly killing each other in simple sparring matches. So long as one of them remained functional enough to drag himself and the others to the regeneration tanks, all was well. Vegeta always went in the worst, of course. Nappa and Radditz always saw to it, so that he’d gain even more from his injuries. He was their hope, after all, and it was their duty to help him become the prophesized warrior, the Super Saiyan, that he was born to be.

                The Super Saiyan was another little secret they kept, but a clever secret, hidden in plain sight. Frieza knew the legend, of course, and regularly used it to mock them, but the Saiyans knew he didn’t really believe in it like they did. He treated it like a silly, primitive belief, a tribal religion held by a stupid race of under-evolved monkeys. They allowed him to believe that, for when Vegeta ascended, Frieza wouldn’t be prepared to face him. They all wanted to see the look on that lizard’s face when a God made flesh appeared before him. They all wanted to see him squirm and cry and beg for mercy, and none more than Vegeta, the prophesized one himself, who clung to his destiny the way only the most fanatic of believers can.

                Gohan, too, had come to believe in the Super Saiyan, even though he’d only learned of it a few years ago, after being found by the last of his father’s true people. Watching Vegeta, seeing the single minded obsession that lurked in his soul, Gohan knew that if anyone could do it, it would be his prince. Even his father’s strength paled in comparison to the furious power that lay inside Vegeta. 

*

                Bulma checked, for probably the billionth time that morning, that her gun was still safely strapped to her thigh. It had been about a week since the research facility debacle, and they’d just landed on Virda, a relatively affluent planet with a cutthroat underground. Who but the rich could afford the black market pleasures of the universe, after all?

                “Bulma, don’t look so nervous.” Krillin ordered.

                “What, they can smell fear?” She quipped, sarcastically, but forced her fidgeting hands to be still. They were waiting for someone to show up, a _friend_ of Gero’s who had a package for him. Bulma swallowed her distaste. She hated running pickups for Dr. Gero, but it was the least they could do, considering that they were pretty much intergalactic couch-hoppers. He’d pressed them to stay on Red Station, of course, but beyond running his errands, the lot of them hadn’t really contributed much. They were too busy being intergalactic rebels to hold down steady jobs.

                “No, but they’ll see you fidgeting and peg you a newbie for sure.” He glared at her, cranky from the heat and stink of Virda, and also secretly uneasy at the prospect of meeting one of Dr. Gero’s contacts. For all they knew, they were meeting to buy a human head in a jar.

                “Gero’s crew, I presume?” Said an odd voice to the right. Bulma turned, and nearly shrieked. It was a cockroach. A _giant_ cockroach. A giant _,many-legged_ cockroach. And it was talking to her. “He told me to look out for you, specifically.” It said, and Bulma squirmed in her chair. She couldn’t say for sure, given that cockroaches don’t have much in the way of facial expressions, but she was pretty certain that it was leering at her.

                “We’re them.” Krillin said, seeing as Bulma was too busy holding in her lunch to speak.

                “Follow me then.” The bug said, clacking it’s topmost legs...err...hands? together, as though contemplating something. It led them through an alley into a dingy looking warehouse where more man-roaches stacked boxes. One was driving a fork-lift. If Bulma hadn’t been so grossed out, she would have laughed. As it was, she was afraid that if she laughed, she might barf a little, and laughter-barf was not ladylike.

Krillin signed for three huge crates, already loaded onto an open-air transport skiff, and they climbed on, the roach at the helm. During the half hour or so it took to get to the ship, Krillin made awkward conversation with the bug, whose name turned out to be Bug. Short for Stanislau Askritya Buglovich. Knowing the long form made it less funny to the three tired Earthlings.

                “So, what’s in here, anyway?” Krillin shouted, over the hum of the engine and the whoosh of air streaming by. The thing was basically a hovering platform with a safety bar around the edges, so the ride was none too comfortable.

                “You mean you don’t know? Well then I probably shouldn’t tell ya.” Bug said, wringing his topmost appendages together as lower ones took over the steering wheel.

                “Aww, c’mon.” Krillin shrugged. “Really, how secret could it be? For all the Doc knows, we’re gonna pop these open as soon as you drop ‘em off anyway.”

                “Well, I guess they can’t be too big of a secret. They’re just regeneration tanks, after all.”

                “Regeneration tanks?” Bulma sounded incredulous, “What would Dr. Gero want with three regeneration tanks?” Bug looked at them, puzzled by their surprise. Regeneration tanks weren’t exactly the most surprising of contraband items. Why, they weren’t even illegal – just damn expensive to purchase through more legitimate channels.

                “Well, they’re handy to have, I guess.” Krillin supplied, but Bulma had already become lost in the maze of thoughts that was her own mind. Puar and Krillin shared a knowing glance; she’d probably have it figured out by the time they got home.

*

                “This Vengeance character is causing me quite a bit of trouble, Zarbon.” Frieza said icily, his typically calm exterior beginning to crack. “The loss of the ki-band prototype and all related data is somewhat  of a setback for us.” Zarbon squirmed. It was a monumental setback, and they both knew it. With all the data gone, Frieza couldn’t even have another research centre continue the task of the destroyed one. They had to start fresh, with no idea where to begin, since the original documents had been so heavily guarded. None of the researchers had been left alive. Their secrets and their knowledge had died with them.

                “How do you know it was Vengeance, sir?” Zarbon dared to ask.

                “Because he practically PISSED his name on the WALL,” Frieza screeched, “that’s how!” The little emperor’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, tried to reign in the anger of his sudden outburst. Zarbon was alarmed by his ever-cool master’s uncharacteristic tantrum. A strange sense of elation washed through him at the idea that someone could disturb Frieza this much, even as he was unnerved by it. “He’s taunting me, that pompous little shit.” Frieza hissed, furiously tapping at his keypad to bring a stream of data to the room’s display monitors. “Look at this. That bastard is connected to over fifteen known renegade groups, and who knows how many that have thus far eluded us!”

                “If he is so well connected, then it should be easy to discover his identity, sire.” Zarbon scanned the list, frowning. He had not been aware that Frieza’s men had managed to worm themselves into so many resistance groups. He wondered what other knowledge his master was keeping hidden.

                “Not so.” The lizard king’s voice was bitter, like that of a pouting child. “I have spies in every one of these groups. I have operatives infiltrating still more. And yet, nothing! This Vengeance is a clever bastard, Zarbon. Not even his contacts know who he is, so they couldn’t tell us, even if they wanted to!”

                “My Lord, if I may be so bold,” Zarbon suggested, “I feel we need a man on the inside. Not one of these spying lackeys, sire, but a real higher up.”

                “It would take years for one of mine to work his way to the top, and by that time Vengeance will have united them all against me.” Frieza hissed, affronted at the very idea that someone would dare to defy him so grandly.

                “No, sire. It would not take years. It would take Ginyu.”

*

                Two weeks later, Bulma still wasn’t sure what the regeneration tanks were for. Aside from the obvious, of course, but why Gero would think there was need at their little base for multiple tanks was beyond her. Then again, considering that most of Gero’s research interests made her slightly uncomfortable, she hadn’t done a lot of in-depth thinking on them. The old man had been shutting himself in his lab for longer and longer periods of time, obviously excited about something. Both she and her father had been on the receiving end of raving, impromptu lectures about artificial life, and something that Dr. Gero had dubbed “the organic machine”. Whatever he was trying to accomplish, he’d either had a major breakthrough, or he’d gone wildly insane.

                When she thought about the cloak and dagger nature of all his experiments, she wasn’t sure which outcome she preferred.

                “Yo, Bulma,” Krillin stepped into the cargo hold, where Bulma had taken up residence. She though that if she stared at the crates long enough, the answer might come to her. “We’re almost planetside.”

                “Ugh, I could use a break from thinking, anyway.” Bulma groaned as she stood up, feeling the muscles in her back pop and protest. “I don’t know why I care so much about these stupid tanks, anyway. I mean, really, they’re regeneration tanks. What could they be used for, besides healing you guys, after you beat on each other too much?” She squinted reprovingly at Krillin, remembering the last time he and Chichi had gone at each other on the training floor. She had gotten a lot stronger in the past three years, thanks to sparring with Krillin and Yamcha, but after Yamcha’s death, the two of them had pushed their training to dangerous limits that had landed them both in the medical ward with concussions. Beyond that, Krillin had gotten away with some bruises, but Chichi’s leg was broken in three places, which was why she hadn’t accompanied them on this mission.

                “Well, I hope they’re just for regeneration. I think Chichi will go insane if she actually has to spend four months in a cast.”

                “I don’t know, I think she’d finding those crutches pretty handy. She walloped Oolong a good one when she caught him trying to draw a dick on her thigh, after he offered to sign her cast.”

                “Oh man, I hadn’t heard that one.” Krillin rolled his eyes, easily able to imagine that exact moment. “How far did he get?”

                “Shaft and head,” Bulma grinned, “But no balls. I think Chichi tried to turn it into a drawing of a duck, but it still looks like a dick to me.”

                “Ahh, the elusive cock-billed mallard.” Krillin cracked, as Bulma tried to stifle snorts of laughter. “A majestic bird, prized by hunters for its unusual beak.”

                “I hate to interrupt the nature program,” Puar squeaked, floating around the corner into the hold, “but we’re hitting the atmosphere soon and the computer’s telling me that manual control of the ship may become necessary.”

                “Okay, okay,” Bulma laughed, linking her hands together above her head, to stretch her arms. “I’m on it.” It was their last stop before heading home to Red Station, and they were all eager to be on their way.

                “Also,” Puar said, as Bulma was halfway up the rungs to the control deck, Krillin close behind, “it looks more like a loon than a mallard.” Bulma laughed so hard she nearly fell off the ladder.

*

                Gohan twitched in his sleep, twisting the already tangled blanket around his legs. Nappa shook his head, leaning over the bed to fix the blanket, gently, so as not to wake the boy from his sleep. Some might have considered it a kindness to wake him from his nightmare, but Nappa knew that it was the only way for the child’s mind to work through his fears. He’d seen it before, after all.

                Poor Gohan was so like the young Prince Vegeta, torn from his home and everything he knew, desperately trying to uphold a brave front, when his world was crumbling around him. Nappa and Radditz had been unable to protect Vegeta from the ravages of life in Frieza’s army, or from the cruelties of the beast himself. The prince had done admirably, however, strong in the conviction that he would be the one to topple the tyrant that had taken his throne. Gohan had no such destiny to live up to, and perhaps because of that, his uncle and his tutor were uncommonly protective of him. Vegeta scoffed at their behaviour, accused them of coddling the boy and making him weak, and in fact would probably beat Nappa silly, if he knew the older man was here, playing blanket-guard like some old nanny, but he too was eager to shelter the boy, in his own way.

                Nappa knew that Vegeta, too, looked at Gohan and saw a reflection of himself; a child who, despite similar circumstances, did not have to live the hell that he had endured as a child. It was why they’d been back at Frieza’s stronghold only once since acquiring the boy, some two-odd years ago. Frieza had demanded to see the child, the demi-saiyan that he had heard about, and they had reluctantly obeyed, cautioning the boy to be on his best behaviour, to follow their lead, and most importantly, not to let Frieza see any of the fear or hatred that he inspired in his subjects. Emotions were a weakness to be exploited, another method of control Frieza used in his sick games. They’d cautioned the boy that any wrongdoing on his part would be taken out on Vegeta, as Frieza was so fond of doing. It was their agreement, that as royalty, Vegeta be given the governance of his own men. It was a matter of pride, he’d said, and the lizard had acquiesced. Vegeta had bought the lives of his men with his body, with his pride. He alone suffered for the mistakes of the group, a fact whose enormity the young half-saiyan did not quite grasp.

                Gohan had not been able to contain his anger, and perhaps it had been unfair of them to ask it of him, Nappa thought. He’d screamed at the diminutive emperor, throwing himself toward the throne in a spectacular and wholly unexpected display of rage. Frieza had simply laughed at the child’s attempts, before putting him down with a mere flick of his finger. Vegeta had stepped in at that point, of course demanding his right to discipline the boy himself, and Frieza had simply smiled and taken his vengeance on the prince instead, while the three remaining Saiyans watched. Gohan would receive his punishment later. Nappa and Radditz, sure as they were of the brutalities Gohan must have witnessed in the slave camps, knew the child had probably never been party to the methodical cruelty that Frieza so fondly doled out. They watched in silence, forcing the child’s eyes open, even as he fought to keep them closed, as blood was shed and bones were broken, as every effort was made to render body and mind useless. They made Gohan watch so that he would see the strength of their prince; a man whose mind remained impenetrable, whose pride remained intact even as his body was smashed to pieces.

                Of course Nappa and Radditz had beaten Gohan later, an unpleasant ordeal involving much blood and tears. It was the latter that unnerved the two adult Saiyans so much; neither of them could recall ever having seen one of their number cry. Not even Vegeta, who’d suffered every torture that Frieza’s twisted mind could fabricate, had ever shed a tear in his pain or misery. Gohan’s sobs had frustrated them, and so they’d beat him harder than they intended, leaving him in a regeneration tank alongside his prince, broken bodily and in mind. They’d congratulated themselves on a job well done, confident that the boy would never forget what the prince suffered for them, but the experience had left them both slightly unnerved, each secretly fearful that they’d done some lasting damage to the boy, that they’d become for him what Frieza was for Vegeta.

                No doubt, the boy was dreaming of that day, watching visions of a man he barely knew, a man who claimed to be his prince, being broken and humiliated in his place. Taking that pain and suffering upon himself, simply because they were of the same people.

                The boy had been unfailingly loyal ever since.

 

*

                “Thank you, Sixteen,” Chichi said, as the big man lifted her from the tub and set her gently on the floor. He waited a moment for her to gain her balance – a delicate feat on one foot – before releasing her. Mrs. Briefs was there, quickly wrapping a towel around the younger woman, to cover her naked, dripping body. Sixteen seemed unfazed by the sight of such things, which was the only reason that Chichi had allowed him to help out. Roshi and Oolong, needless to say, had been disappointed.

                “You are welcome.” He said, his cool blue eyes never straying below her shoulders. Chichi sighed gratefully as he left. Sixteen’s presence was a bit of a lifesaver. She and Mrs. Briefs were currently the only women on board Red Station, Bulma not expected back for at least another two weeks, and there was no way the older woman would have been able to haul anyone out of the tub like that.

                “Damn this cast.” Chichi cursed, frowning at the thing that covered her leg from hip to toes. Her mobility was more than severely hampered, and it was beginning to drive her crazy. She bent and began peeling the waterproof coating – an odd, almost jelly-like putty, from her the cast on her thigh, as Mrs. Briefs knelt to start at her foot. “Why can’t we just leave this goo on all the time?” She moaned, knowing full well that when allowed to dry out, the putty would flake and fall apart.

                “Oh, dear, try not to worry too much about it.” Bulma’s famously chipper mother said, as she pulled a chunk of jiggly, wiggly gunk from Chichi’s ankle. It wobbled like jello in her hand as she reached out to dump it in the garbage can. “After all, you only have to wear your cast for another three and a half months.” The putty made a sickening splat as it hit the bottom of the can.

                “At best.” Chichi groaned, knowing she could very well be stuck for up to six months, if her femur was as badly cracked as Dr. Gero thought it was.

*

                Bulma, Krillin and Puar, who had once again morphed into as intimidating a form as he could think of, were met at the landing docks of Boona, an average sized city of the planet Chisal. Their guide was cloaked from head to toe in breezy, white fabric, his face hidden from view. Bulma shuddered, remembering Bug, and wondered what hideousness this one could possibly be hiding.

                “Come this way,” he said, in a surprisingly childlike voice, and as he reached out to assist Bulma down an awkward step, she noted a surprisingly humanoid hand. Four green fingers and one green thumb were each graced with pointed fingernails, but the size and shape of it were remarkably similar to that of a human child of ten or so. She grasped the hand, pleased and comforted by the warmth of it. His skin was smooth and slightly tough to touch, but she was not bothered his grip. Krillin hopped down on his own and Puar, awkward in his bulky new form, nearly toppled them all.

                “Sorry,” Puar muttered, righting himself. He wished he’d chosen something with longer legs, but it was too late to shift now.

                “Tell your friend he needn’t worry,” the diminutive little guide said to Bulma, though he spoke loud enough that his next words stopped them all in their tracks. “He may revert to his natural form if he so chooses.” Bulma let her hand slide from his grasp and took a step backward.

                “H...How did you know?” She asked, shakily. The cloaked form stood there for a moment, merely observing them from under the cover of his veil.

                “I am simply aware, that is all.” He said, sounding like a remorseful child who has said something upsetting, but is unaware of why it should not have been said.

                “Puar, go ahead.” Krillin said, watching the shrouded figure. He noted the slight swivel of the head, and suddenly had the feeling that the figure beneath the fabric was smiling at him. He grinned back. “I think it will be alright.” Puar looked to Bulma, who nodded after a quick perusal of the area. They were in a fairly sheltered spot, and there was no one around that any of them could see. Puar changed back with a soft ‘pop’ and came to rest on Bulma’s shoulder. The guide turned and resumed walking, the three uneasy Earthlings trailing him. He did not make a move to grasp Bulma’s hand again as they walked, though he stayed as close to her as a child might his mother.

                Ten minutes of walking found them in a transport hangar, where they climbed into the closest thing to cars that they’d seen since leaving Earth, and Bulma felt a particular pang of homesickness. She was oddly comforted by the warmth of the little guide in the seat next to her. “The vehicle will drive itself.” He said. “I have programmed our destination in already. I would advise that if any of you suffer from sickness of motion, looking out the windows would not be wise.” He spoke with the confidence of one who knew firsthand. “The vehicle moves incredibly fast and the landscape rushes by at dizzying speeds.”

                The transport vehicle was indeed faster than Bulma had expected it to be, for in about ten minutes, they were so far from the city that she could no longer see its towering skyline over the flat plains of Chisal’s countryside. Another ten minutes and they’d arrived at their destination – a sprawling little homestead with a little white dome for a house.

                “Come, you will meet Guru now.” Said the guide, as the vehicle’s door opened with a mechanic hiss  of air. Bulma gasped in shock as they stepped into the sunlight, and beside her, Krillin dropped into a fighting stance.

                “Piccolo!” They both cried out at the same time, much to the dismay of their guide.

                “What is going on?” He asked, sounding distressed, as he pushed his hood back. “Do not be alarmed!” Bulma shrieked and jumped back as the smooth green head and curved antennae were revealed.

                “I believe you are mistaken.” Said the other, as he stepped closer and dropped into his own fighting stance. He smirked, showing off an impressive set of fangs. “But if it is a battle you desire, I am more than happy to comply. Get back, Dende.”

                “Nail, stop it!” The little Piccolo cried out, jumping in between the two warriors with his arms outstretched. “This is not our purpose!” He turned toward Krillin, grateful that Nail seemed to be obeying. “Who is this Piccolo you speak of?” Krillin’s eyes darted toward the guide, who it seemed really was just a child, and his eyes widened with surprise. He relaxed his stance a little, looking toward the adult figure, noticing now the subtle differences in looks.

                “What,” he said weakly, as he moved out of his fighting stance altogether, “is going on?”

                “My name is Dende.” The child said, smiling in earnest as Nail relaxed his stance as well. “This is Nail. We are servants of Guru, the man you have come to meet. Please, come. He will be waiting.” Shrugging, Krillin followed the boy into the little domed house, forcing Bulma and Puar to follow, lest they be left outside with that Piccolo lookalike. The inside of the house was cool and shady, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, but when they did, none of them quite believed what they were seeing. Sitting before them, resplendent in robes, was the fattest, oldest looking creature they’d ever seen. They’d seen a lot of fat, and they’d seen a lot of old, but none of them could recall a creature so endowed of both. Dende and Nail both bowed, bent at the waist, and Dende said something in a language that the Earthlings did not understand, before stepping aside to wave the trio forward.

                “Honourable guests,” the humongous old man said as he gestured them forward, “my name is Guru. Welcome to my home. Sit, please. May I offer you any food or drink? We Nameks consume only water, so we do not have much, but we tend the trees here and in return they give us fruits so our guests might have some refreshment.”

                “Water would be wonderful, thank you. My name is Bulma. This is Krillin and Puar.” Bulma said, though she got the distinct impression that they already knew, somehow. Beside him, Dende grinned widely.

                “You do us honour, to trust us with your real names.” Guru smiled, and they could see his pointed fangs, surprisingly white for one so old. Bulma wondered, briefly, why a creature who consumed only water would need such sharp teeth, or any teeth, for that matter, but dismissed it as inconsequential.

                “You do us honour with your recognition.” Bulma replied, and she meant it. Guru was known widely in the underground resistance as a level headed and compassionate man. His teams worked primarily to bring aid to those suffering under Frieza’s rule. They freed slaves and brought medicine and food to besieged peoples. Guru’s men never set bombs while their allies were still around to get blown up, Bulma thought sourly.

                “I have heard of your great technical prowess, Codename Blue, is it?” He asked Bulma. “I did wonder about your name, but now I see. But that is beside the point. I understand that you have developed a device that stores incredible things in a tiny little container. Is this true?”

                “Well, sort of.” Bulma accepted a gourd filled with water from Dende, and sipped gratefully from it. The day had grown very hot, and even in the nice, cool hut, she was sweating. “My father developed it, really, back on Earth. I worked there too, helping him. We call it encapsulation. I have one here, if you’d like to see it.” At Guru’s nod, she pulled a capsule from her bag, clicked the top down and tossed it into the center of the room. Moments later, a pop sounded and in its place was a sturdy looking case, roughly the size of a coffee table. “It’s not much,” she said, opening the lid to display rows of bandages and wads of cotton. She lifted out the tray to reveal more neatly organized compartments, full of medical equipment and supplies. “Just a first aid kit, but we can go bigger. On Earth, we encapsulated cars, jets, and even small houses. We’re still working out the kinks though; we had to start from the ground up, since our facilities on Earth were destroyed.”

                “Wonderful, amazing!” Guru’s squinty eyes lit up with delight. “Imagine all the food we could transport, if we had access to such things! Name your price, Bulma, Krillin and Puar.” Bulma was a little taken aback for a moment. She was used to hemming and hawing, even with other resistance bands, but here he was, offering anything that was in his power to give. Nail seemed to share Bulma’s sentiments, for his eyes had popped halfway out of his head and he began to sputter something about how Guru was too trusting.

                “Aren’t you even going to try lowballing me?” She blurted out, surprised. She blushed when the three green men looked confused. “I mean...um...ah...”

                “Your technology is invaluable to us.” Guru said firmly, and again, Bulma got the impression that regardless of what she said, he already knew what was going to happen, more or less.

                “Tell us what you are.”

                “Pardon me?” It was Nail’s turn to be caught off guard.

                “That’s my price.” Bulma said. “We knew someone on Earth named Piccolo and he looked exactly like you.” She pointed at Nail. “So what’s the deal? Tell us, and we’ll keep you in capsule boxes.”

                “I do believe I know this Piccolo you speak of.” Guru smiled dreamily, appearing lost in memory. “I was but a young man, but I remember. Such a troubled soul, the likes of which the Elders had never seen on Namek, for that is the name of our planet, rest her soul.” He touched two fingers briefly to his heart in a sort of salute, before continuing. “The elders did not know what to do with Piccolo, so full of pride and passion. He was fire, when all we Nameks knew was water and earth.”

                “Actually,” Krillin piped up, a little bit hesitant to interrupt the old sage, “that Piccolo, Piccolo Daimyo as we called him, was killed. He was the terror of Earth. The Piccolo that we had mistaken Nail for is his son, though he’s probably...well...when Earth was destroyed...I guess they’re both dead.” He finished, awkwardly trailing off.

                “Hmmm,” Guru seemed a little saddened by Krillin’s statement. “I would have thought he would do greater things. The Piccolo that I remember was volatile, yes, but tempered by such goodness.” Bulma and Krillin shared a look; they didn’t remember any kind of goodness in either Piccolo, unaware as they were that Piccolo Daimyo was born of the evil that had been cast off by Guru’s Piccolo, in order to become Kami.

                “So Piccolo was an alien then?” Bulma asked, “A Namek? What happened to your planet?”

                “Ahh, she suffered the same fate as Earth, I am afraid. Frieza’s forces came. They took many of our strong and our wise into their ships to become slaves, and they destroyed the rest along with Mother Namek. Nail, Dende and I, along with a few others that live here too, were lucky enough to escape. Nail stole one of their ships, you see.” Guru grinned like a mischievous child at Nail, who seemed a little embarrassed by the attention. “It was a rather wild adventure for us.”

                “Wait, they took people?” Krillin interrupted, sitting forward in his seat.

                “Why, yes, did they not take Earthlings too?” Guru sounded surprised. “Is that not how you escaped Earth?”

                “We...we don’t know. We were in space when the planet was destroyed...but they did send ships down before they blew it up!” Krillin turned triumphantly to Bulma and Puar, “This means that some Earthlings might be alive still! Goku and Tien and Chiaotzu! They’re strong, they were probably taken by Frieza’s men!” Puar squeaked something unintelligible and grasped Bulma’s shirt so hard, she thought he was going to tear it. She was too excited to care, even though it was one of her favourite shirts.

                “To be slaves.” Nail’s hard voice cut in, effectively putting a damper on their sudden enthusiasm. “If they were taken, they’ve become slaves or soldiers. If they’ve become slaves or soldiers, they’re either dead, or wishing they were.”

                “And if they’re alright?” Krillin asked belligerently, a little miffed at Nail for his quick destruction of their happiness.

                “I don’t want to meet the man who is ‘alright’ under Frieza’s rule.” Nail shot back, full of venom.

                “Now, now,” Guru cut in, “no need for this bickering. We are all friends here, all working together against Frieza.” He turned his head to focus on Nail, “Let them have their hope, child. It will do them no harm.”

 .

.

.

 

Why does Bug’s full name sound vaguely Eastern European? I don’t know, but it does. I got stuck on “Buglovich” and I had to roll with it from there.

Anyway, that’s all for chapter 6. Please consider leaving a review! I would love to know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, Krillin would have been hotter. Maybe then more people would be interested in writing K/18 fics.

Author’s notes: Sorry for the delay between chapters. Been uninspired lately and writing something that doesn’t suck has been difficult. Thanks for the reviews, guys. It’s a big motivator to know that people want to hear the rest of the story.

 

PRESENT DAY

 

                Bulma fiddled with the tiny device in her hands as she waited for the computer analysis to finish printing out. The meeting with Guru had left her jumpy and nervous, unable to sit still. He’d given them two gifts before they left, the first of which had been bestowed upon Krillin. Bulma hadn’t really been sure what was happening, but she’d watched as the old Namek placed his huge, wrinkled hand on Krillin’s head, watched his eyes widen with shock as a strange glow surrounded him. She couldn’t sense power levels herself, but Krillin assured her that his had skyrocketed in a matter of moments.

                The second gift was for Bulma, though Guru explained that it couldn’t really be considered a gift, since she technically owned it in the first place. He’d smiled at her puzzled look and dropped the ghost drive into her outstretched palm.

                It was the little device that bothered her so, at that moment. How had Vengeance known that she would be with Guru? She was scared by the idea that he seemed to know so much about her, terrified that she was putting her life, and the lives of her friends, in danger. Did he know about Red Station? If he did, how many others knew as well? She’d been confident that Red would remain completely separate from her activities as Blue – she’d taken great pains to scramble signals so no one could trace the origins of her transmissions. The fact that Vengeance could contact her at will did not bother her, for it had been her tools which allowed him to do so, but the fact that he’d traced her physical location was a major blow to her confidence, and also her sense of security.

                The computer chimed and Bulma snatched the piece of paper from the printer, her eyes greedily scanning it for details. She’d checked the ghost drive for fingerprints, DNA, fibres, any kind of clue as to who’d had it. She desperately wanted to turn the tables on Vengeance, that smarmy son of a bitch. She was doomed to be disappointed. No fingerprints, no skin flakes, no nothing. So all she knew was that the clever bastard was smart enough to wear gloves while handling it.

                “Bulma! BULMA!” Puar’s urgent squeak grabbed her attention, and she looked up to see the little cat soar, madcap, into the room. “Come quickly, come quickly! You have to change our course!”

                “Puar, Puar, calm down! What’s going on?” She asked, stopping dead as the shapeshifter tugged on her hand, trying to pull her forward.

                “We need to change course! It’s Chichi, she’s on the comlink. She says a slaver near here is advertising a three eyed Earthling for sale!”

*

*

                Bulma eyed the regeneration tank, thankful for whatever crazy scheme had caused Dr. Gero to buy it. She checked the little monitor to be sure that all was well with the man floating inside; Tien had been in really bad shape when they’d found him, and Bulma had spent all night trying to assemble and program the machine. She’d been terrified that something would go wrong, unfamiliar as she was with the technology, but she could see that some of the cuts and gashes marring his skin had already begun to close up. The healing process was going more slowly than she figured it could, but she was very worried about overdoing it, and besides, he looked like he could use the extra rest.

                Bulma frowned, watching Tien float, unconscious in the blue liquid. He’d been disturbingly out of sorts when they’d picked him up; he hadn’t seemed to know them. Granted, they’d never been great friends, but he should’ve at least known Krillin’s face. He’d been in a daze, looking blankly at them as though they were strangers. Bulma frowned, bringing her hand up to her mouth and catching her thumbnail between her teeth as she focused her gaze on his wrists. They were raw from the cuffs he’d been wearing to chain his hands together. Identical bands of angry flesh wrapped around his ankles as well. The whole slave-camp had been barbaric, and Bulma shuddered at the thought of all those poor souls they’d had to leave behind. Not for the first time, she cursed her lack of wealth, even knowing that it wasn’t enough to buy freedom for all of the slaves in that one market, let alone the rest of the universe.

                She shuddered, remembering the camp; endless rows of wire-mesh cages, bare dirt floors, with not even a sink or toilet. The stench of feces, urine, and unwashed bodies had been overpowering, enough to bring tears to her eyes. Puar had spent the entire time perched on her shoulder with his nose buried in her hair to try and block out the stink. The slaver in charge was a gruff, quiet man with a whip coiled on one hip and a beam gun on the other. He’d seen their physical similarities to Tien and had doubled his price, knowing that they would pay. Bulma had haggled him down a quarter, but he’d refused to go any lower, so Krillin had grudgingly handed over their money, while Bulma mentally calculated how much fuel they’d need to buy to account for the detour, and whether or not they could afford to get home. Puar remained in her hair.

                Tien hadn’t struggled as the slaver handed Krillin the end of a heavy chain, attached to the cuffs around his wrists. He’d merely shuffled along, steps much smaller than the maximum allowed by his leg irons, following them back to the ship. Once aloft, they’d quickly unlocked and disposed of his chains, but he hadn’t seemed to notice the loss of them. He’d become a little more animated when Puar set a plate of food before him, but he’d shown no suspicion or protest when they were finally able to put him into the regeneration tank.  Bulma hoped that the bubbling machine would do his mind a little good, as well as his body.

                She sighed and took one last look at the machine’s monitor before exiting the room. There was work to be done elsewhere on the ship.

*

*

                Gohan wrinkled his nose as Nappa passed by. He stank like cheap scent and cheap female, and there was a grin on his face a mile wide. Gohan didn’t quite understand what the smell meant, but he knew it wasn’t pleasant, despite the satisfaction evident in the adult’s swagger.

                “Wipe that look off your face, brat.” Radditz said, as soon as Nappa was out of earshot. He moved his game piece and gestured for his nephew to take a turn. “You don’t even understand what you’re scowling about.”

                “Nappa makes women scream and cry.” Gohan said simply, his voice quiet but hard. “I heard them, on the last mission. Then he comes back stinking of them. It’s bad. I don’t like it.” Radditz’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the conviction in the child’s voice. He watched as one small hand reached out, grabbed a knight and deftly knocked his king over. “Checkmate.” The boy said and Radditz scowled. He hated this ‘chess’ game that Gohan had taught him. Too many rules, and why was the king such a damn weakling, anyway?

                “You’ve hurt people before, Gohan. You can’t fault Nappa for doing the same thing.”

                “Do I look that happy afterward?” The child’s voice was sharp, his movements jerky as he began scooping the handmade chess pieces into their bag. Radditz watched his nephew, at a loss for words. The kid had an alien outlook on everything and this was one of the rare occasions when Radditz didn’t think a good beating would change his mind.

                “It’s really not as bad as you think it is. The ones in the whores’ quarters don’t scream or cry.” Radditz pointed out, thinking he may have gained the upper hand.

                “Neither does Vegeta,” Gohan said, with eyes as black an intense as the Prince’s himself, “when Frieza beats him. Does that make it fine?” He stuffed the last piece into the bag and yanked on the drawstrings so hard that they snapped. The bag flew from his grasp, pieces tumbling out of its slack mouth, clattering to the floor and scattering.

                “Kid-”

                “My dad never treated my mom like that!” Gohan burst out, interrupting his uncle. “He loved her! He loved her and he was nice to her! And to ME!” Tears streamed down his face and Gohan sniffed, trying to stem the sudden flow of snot. Radditz growled, frustration eating at him, as he grabbed the cub by the back of the neck, hooking one hand under the pint-sized armour plating, and hauled him off his feet.

                “Well,” he snarled, Saiyan temper kicking in to high gear, “Your precious dad never had to live through what we do. So shut up and quit your fucking whining, brat. Deal with it.” He let go, shoving the kid a few stumbling steps backward. Then he thought better of it and dragged him forward again. “We’re going to train now.” He said, thinking perhaps a beating was in order, after all.

*

*

                “So, you see, we had to use it.” Bulma wheedled, trying to talk her way past Dr. Gero’s angry looking face. “I know it’s yours, but I don’t see what harm I could have caused by using it to heal Tien.” She crossed her arms and frowned at Gero, trying out a new tactic. Hadn’t anyone ever taught him to share?

                “It’s no good to me anymore.” Gero howled, throwing his hands up in the air, “Not with _his_ DNA all over it!” He gestured with one flailing arm toward Tien, who stood quietly beside Krillin, still groggy from the anaesthetic. His wrists and ankles were all but healed. Gero sneered, distastefully. “What, he doesn’t even talk? Can he even understand what we’re saying? Pathetic specimen, I tell you!” He eyed the two untouched crates, suspiciously. “You didn’t do anything untoward to the others, did you?” His startling blue eyes glared into hers, and she felt like sticking her tongue out at him, like she would have back when he used to catch her playing with his experiments as a child.

                “No, Dr. Gero.” She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, aware and uncaring that it made her seem like a haughty teenager. “We did not _regenerate_ anyone else in your _regeneration_ tanks.” Yeesh, she thought, what the hell were the tanks for, anyway? What harm could possibly come from using them for their intended purpose?

                “Well at least you didn’t ruin _everything._ ” Gero sneered, turning his back as he gestured for Sixteen. The big android lumbered toward the first crate, bent, and lifted it as though it weighed nothing. He straightened, adjusting his hold on the massive box before following Dr. Gero into his lab. Bulma narrowed her eyes, frowning at the keypad that afforded entry into the off-limits space. She wished she had the codes, just so she could see what was going on in there. The older man’s secrecy put her on edge and piqued her curiosity.

                “Krillin,” she sighed, when they were out of the room, “You’d better take Tien and get him to lie down somewhere.”

                “Don’t worry, Bulma, you did the right thing.” Chichi patted her arm and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure Sixteen won’t mind taking a look at him to make sure he’s okay, once Gero settles down.” She stopped talking as Sixteen reappeared to grab the other machine.

                “Dr. Gero has instructed me to tell you that you may have the third tank, since you have ruined it anyway.” He intoned, his massive shoulders shrugging apologetically. “Those are his words, not mine.” He turned without another word and hefted up the second crate, carefully manoeuvring to fit its bulk through the door to the lab.

                “Well,” Bulma said, after the door swooshed shut behind Sixteen, “that settles that. Let’s get this thing hooked up and jam your broken ass in there!”

                “Oh, thank Kami!” Chichi sighed, sagging theatrically on her crutches. “I cannot wait to get this damn cast off!” Together they goaded Krillin into moving the device into the medical wing for them-  not truly a hard task for someone of his strength, merely awkward for someone of his small stature- and Bulma began setting it up while Chichi went to put on a bathing suit. No way was she getting in there, ass naked and unconscious, with perverts like Roshi and Oolong roaming the space station!

                Sixteen, who acted as the station’s medic, returned to cut off Chichi’s cast. Together, he and Bulma helped her into the regeneration tank and hooked up all the sensors and her breathing apparatus. They stayed to watch over her as the blue fluid began to fill the tank, trying their best to calm her through the glass as she was submerged in the cold jelly-like substance, leaving only after the anaesthetics being pumped into her oxygen finally took effect and she drifted off to sleep.

                Bulma did not miss the way that Sixteen lingered by the glass, tentatively touching the smooth surface with large fingers as Chichi floated there, long black hair swirling around her neck and shoulders, free of its usual bun.

*

                Radditz sat, staring glumly at his computer screen. He’d been there for an hour, and all he’d managed was to type “Puar” in the _To_ line of his message program. Well, that wasn’t completely true. He’d begun the letter at least three times before re-reading it and scrapping the whole thing in his frustration. He didn’t know what to say; he wasn’t used to this sort of thing. When he’d implied to Puar that he was a master of seduction, he hadn’t really been thinking beyond getting him into bed, and truthfully, Radditz was a bit of a putz when it came to matters not involving fighting or sex. Of course, if he got this letter right, it might lead to more sex, which was naturally the desired outcome of the whole embarrassing business. But he didn’t know what to say. He’d never had to pursue anyone without the direct and immediate use of his rather impressive body before.

                _“Dear Puar,”_ he typed, then grimaced and backspaced a few times to get rid of the first word. That was better; less prissy. “ _Puar_ ,” his message read, and he thought for a moment before putting his fingers to the keypad, “ _I want to fuck your hot body again_.” No, that was all wrong, too. He highlighted the sentence and hit delete. “ _Puar_ ,” he tried again, _“I can’t stop thinking about you.”_ Fuck. Delete. Too mushy.

                Radditz threw back his head and groaned. When he’d asked Puar for his contact info, he’d never imagined it would be so hard to type a single message. Christ, all he wanted was to meet up again for a little roll between the sheets; why was it so hard to ask for? He wished he hadn’t had such a good time that night. He wished the intoxicating man had been a shitty lay; then he wouldn’t be in this stupid situation, sitting in the dark at three-o-fucking clock in the morning, trying to feel out an intergalactic booty call from a guy who’d ditched his poor, unsatisfied self at a seedy hotel in the middle of the night.

                It all seemed a bit pathetic, he thought with a sigh. It was like he was twelve again, suffering from his first lust for a female. Gods, what had her name been? He couldn’t remember, nor her face, but he clearly remembered the way her mouth had looked, full lips pursed oh so enticingly as she told him to go fuck himself, then walked off, laughing, with an older boy. Fuck her, he thought, they were both dead now anyway. Gods, though, he’d masturbated to the mental image of that puckered mouth for weeks, afterward.

                “ _Puar,_ ” he typed again, steeling himself. He was a Saiyan warrior. He would not be defeated by such petty concerns as embarrassment!

*

                “I take it you got my gift.” Vengeance said, by way of greeting. Bulma had finally gotten up the nerve to ask him how he’d figured out where they would be in order to deliver the ghost drive, and after trying to contact him for nearly a week, he’d finally accepted a com link invitation.

                “Where the hell have you been?” She demanded, irritated by his casual voice. She’d been hailing him for _days_. What if it had been an emergency?

                “Tsk, tsk, where are your manners, Blue? Not even a thank you.” He drawled, sounding amused by her temper. He always sounded amused by her temper, and it drove her crazy. “As if I have nothing better to do than sit back and wait for you to contact me? You forget who I am.”

                “How could I forget who you are when I have no fucking clue in the first place?” Bulma ground out, trying to keep her cool in the face of his arrogance. “But you don’t have that problem, do you? Seeing as you seem to know everything about me!”

                “Oh, I don’t know _everything_.” He said, and she felt a shiver run, completely unexpected, down her spine, straight between her legs.

                “Can it, asshole.” She said, forcefully ignoring the way her legs had gone a bit wobbly. She sat down in her chair, took a deep breath, and reminded herself who she was talking to. Vengeance. The same Vengeance that had watched Yamcha die, and had nearly blown her up on Benthal Six, and who’d been able to track her, physically, in space. Vengeance was a dangerous, volatile man who could not be trusted to remain on her side, despite his current direction. “How did you know I was going to be on Chisal, meeting Guru?”

                “Because I make it my business to know.” The laughter was back in his voice, and she could just imagine him, some shadowy figure seated in some dark room, fingers steepled before him like some evil mastermind.

                “I asked how, not why. Quit dancing around the subject.”

                “Full of fire today, are we?” He asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “If you must know, Guru told me. He informs me often of his plans.”

                “What?!” Bulma shrieked, “Why? That’s not fair! I never agreed to this!”

                “Ah, well, lesson learned, Blue.” Vengeance said. “Be careful who you trust. Even Guru is not without faults.” There was a click, and Vengeance was gone, just like that. No goodbyes, no explanation, nothing. Son of a bitch. She needed a drink.

*

                Sixteen frowned as he watched Krillin deliver a roundhouse kick to Chichi’s side, sending the woman flying into the wall with a cringe-inducing thud. She’d spent a few days in the regeneration tank and her leg was all healed, but he found that he was worried anyway. It was irrational, he knew, to expect her to stop training, but he couldn’t help feeling the way he did. He did not like to see her getting hurt, coming to dinner every night with a split lip or a black eye or knuckles so bruised and swollen that she could barely hold her own fork.

                “Sixteen,” a voice said, and he jumped, startled. All of his sensors had been focused on the sparring match before him, so he hadn’t noticed Bulma until her hand was on his arm. “You and I, I think we need to talk.” She said, and if he’d been capable of blushing, he would have been beet red at that point.

                “About what?” He tried to play it cool, and knew he had failed miserably when Bulma turned a knowing eye on the black haired woman, who was currently punching Krillin in the face.

                “I think you know what.” She took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen, where she pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit. He did as she bade, the chair squeaking only slightly in protest of his bulk, and watched as she disappeared into the pantry. While he waited for her return, he thought about his predicament and tried to sort out how he felt. He couldn’t recall ever having been embarrassed in his life, and could not figure out why this situation, of all that he had lived through, would be the one to cause the strange mixture of shame and humiliation. There was no cause for it. Chichi, according to his data banks, could easily be classified as an attractive female of the human species. She possessed many of the physical markers. It was perfectly rational that he should find her thus.

                “Aha!” Bulma crowed in triumph, from the depths of the pantry. She reappeared moments later with a bottle of SiHo, a popular alcohol that tasted like scotch, burned like vodka, and punched you in the gut like tequila. She’d picked the bottle up cheaply in a trade market a while back, and had hidden it away, saving it for just such an occasion. “You and I are going to get hammered.” She said, wiggling the bottle at Sixteen, and grinning as the contents sloshed about inside.

                “Hammered?” Sixteen questioned, as he watched her dig out two glasses.

                “Drunk.” Bulma clarified, as she plunked the cups down on the table and cracked the seal on the bottle. “Sloshed, sotted, gobsmacked, wrecked, sauced, smashed, hooped, you get the picture.” She sat and poured them both a glass. “Bottoms up!” She said, and tossed it back. Sixteen followed suit, and she poured them both another glass.

                “Why are we doing this?” Sixteen asked, just as Bulma was about to lift her glass.

                “Because we deserve it.” She replied, “You’re in love with Chichi and I don’t know what to do about Vengeance. I say we both deserve to forget that for a little bit.” She downed her drink and again, Sixteen followed suit, but his mind had gone elsewhere. In love with Chichi? Love? He couldn’t be, could he? He frowned as he held out his glass for a third drink.

*

                Bulma leaned heavily on the counter, head supported by one hand, and glared at Sixteen. She was practically a puddle, and he sat there, happy as a clam. She was willing to bet that the world wasn’t spinning upside-down through his eyes at the moment. “How the hell are you still sitting straight up.” She whined, poking the near-empty bottle with one finger. Sixteen had the grace to look embarrassed.

                “I did think to tell you...” he began, slowly, “but you were so intent.”

                “Tell me what.” Her blue eyes narrowed and she tried to look menacing, but her elbow slipped in a puddle of SiHo and her chin nearly went crashing down into the table. With a shake of her head, she righted herself and waited for his answer.

                “Well,” he refused to meet her gimlet stare, “alcohol does not affect me. I am a machine, Bulma. My body simply burns the alcohol into useable fuel as it does everything else I ingest.”

                “Son of a-“ she hissed, glaring at her nearly empty bottle. “You mean I wasted _half_ a bottle of SiHo on you?”

*

                Because everyone knows that the best ideas in the world are conceived when geniuses are drunk, Bulma did not hesitate to act on her impulses that night. Her first order of business was to eat half of a tub of ice cream, which she put back in the freezer with the spoon still stuck inside. After she was finished with that, she stumbled into her bedroom, came across a pair of shoes that reminded her of Yamcha, and spent the next half hour sobbing drunkenly, wallowing in self-pity and the miserable conviction that she had sent her friend to his death.

                “Vengeance,” she muttered, taking a swig straight from the bottle, “this is your fault, you son of a bitch.” She’d made her way to her computer. “You could have let him live...could have let him escape. But instead you let him kill himself. Fucking coward.” She spat, then covered her mouth with a gasp. “No, he wasn’t, was he? Yamcha could have lived, but he didn’t. What does that make him?” She hiccupped as she threw herself, bodily, into her computer chair. “Fucking Vengeance. Torments me. Tells me my boyfriend’s dead with that raspy, sexy voice.”

                “Bulma, are you okay in here?” It was her mother, blonde bouffant peering around the doorway as she watched her daughter fumble with the keyboard. “Let me get you a glass of water or something.” She stepped in, gingerly removing the bottle from Bulma’s hand while her daughter glared. There were only a few drops of SiHo left, anyway. By the time she returned with water, Bulma seemed to have composed herself a little, but was still obviously under the influence. “What are you doing, honey?” She asked.

                “Calling Vengeance. Dumb jerk thinks he knows everything. I’m going to find out something about _him_ , to even the odds!” Bulma squinted at the keyboard, trying to make it stay still while she typed in Vengeance’s contact codes.

                “Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Bulma’s mother had heard all about Vengeance – they all had – even if she had no part in their operations.

                “Yes.” Bulma said petulantly, shooing her mother out of the room as the com-link attempted to make a connection. Mrs. Briefs sighed, but she knew what they said about drunk geniuses – her husband and daughter always telling her so – so she left Bulma to whatever machinations her mind wished.

                “Tell me something about yourself.” Bulma blurted, as soon as the connection was made. So much for being sneaky. Vengeance hadn’t even had enough time to say _hello_...not that he would have, anyway.

                A pause, and then a confused sounding “What?” Shit, Bulma thought, had she woken him up?

                “You know so much about us, and I don’t know a damn thing about you. So open up, asshole, and start talking.”

                “Since when do I take orders from you?” He sounded furious, but awake, at least.

                “Since now!”

                “Fuck, woman, are you drunk or something?” The hiss that came through the com-link was heavy with irritation. “You wake me up in the middle of the night in order to demand a sharing session? What next? Are we going to pinky-swear to be best friends forever?”

                “You guys have pinky-swearing out here in space?” Bulma asked, irreverently.

                “Oh, for Fuck’s _SAKE_!” There was an incomprehensible snarling on the other end that sounded to Bulma like it might be another language.

                “What’s your favourite food?” Bulma pressed. “I like pancakes.”

                “That’s what you wanted to know? I wish I’d killed you in that blast, you stupid bitch.”

                “What’s your favourite food.” Bulma repeated. “I’m not going to leave me alone until you tell me something about yourself. I don’t even care what it is. What’s your shoe size?”

                “What if I hang up?”

                “I thought of that already. I’ll call back. Again and again until you answer me. I’m trying to make this easy on you. Just tell me your favourite food.” She leaned back and took a sip from her glass, frowning when she remembered it was water and not booze.

                “Edible matter.” He snarled. “Satisfied?”

                “Fffuck no.” Bulma held her ‘f’ a little too long, and cringed. He’d know she’d been drinking for sure. “What colour are your eyes?” No answer. “Okay, what do you do in your spare time?”

                “I kill annoying pests who disrupt my SLEEP!”

                “What colour is your hair, Vengeance?” Bulma spun herself around in her chair and gagged a little at the dizziness that resulted. Oooh, bad idea. Her stomach rolled and she suddenly felt very nauseous.

                “Seventeen shades of orange.” Vengeance shot back, then without missing a beat, “My turn. What colour are your nipples?”

                “Funny,” Bulma choked out as her stomach lurched again. “Same answer.” She hung up and promptly puked in her garbage can.

*

                Vegeta jumped at the scuffling noise behind him. He’d been so intent upon what he was doing that he hadn’t even heard the door panel slide open. Gohan stood, open mouthed and stunned in the doorway. Vegeta wondered how much the boy had heard.

“What are you doing in here, boy?” The prince snarled, flipping the switch that disengaged his radio communicator. He stood and took a menacing step toward the child. Gohan backed away, frightened. He didn’t know what to say. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have heard all that, but how could he pretend he hadn’t? That had been Bulma’s voice on the other end, he was sure of it.

“Umm, I” Gohan was interrupted as he bumped backwards into a wall of solid flesh.

“Oooh, what’s going on in here, Vegeta?” Radditz said eagerly, placing his hands on the boy’s shaking shoulders as he stepped into the room. “I heard a girl’s voice. You got a girl in here?” His eyes scanned the room, seeing only the radio box on the table. “Oh, I get it,” he said slyly, waggling his eyebrows at the prince. “You’re on one of those sex chats, aren’t you?” He ignored the steadily growing growl of his monarch, and went on. “Those are fun. I like it when they have real deep voices, you know, like they sound all throaty and they’re probably built like a brick shithouse. Like you know they’re solid and they could probably have you on your back if they wanted to, ya know? Yeah, that’s the way I like ‘em.” His tail wagged behind him and he wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his grin with the back of his hand.

Radditz didn’t have time to dodge, or to pull the boy out of harm’s way before they both crashed against the wall, Vegeta’s door quivering on its hinges as it was slammed shut in their faces.

“Uncle Radditz,” Gohan began, swallowing as though his stomach had climbed into his throat. “I heard-“ He was cut off as Radditz’s hand closed over his mouth, smooshing his cheeks together so that his lips stuck out like a fish’s. His uncle’s face was suddenly dead serious, and he shrunk back from the black gaze that captured his own.

“I know what you heard.” Radditz rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, you hear me? Not even Nappa. You don’t fucking dare let Vegeta know what you heard.” He shook Gohan’s head a little, in emphasis. “You just pretend this never happened, you know? You and me, we don’t even talk about this, beyond this conversation. Because if I hear any rumours, have any inkling that you let this spill to anyone, I swear on the pile of space dust that was Vegetasei, that I’ll kill you my Goddamn self. Kin or not. Understand?” He asked the wide-eyed boy, gave him another shake just to make his point.

“But, I know –“

“Whatever fucking thing you know, you forget it right now.” Radditz said.

“Y…Yessir.” Gohan peeped.

 

 

 

 

Dun Dun Dunnnnn....except you probably already figured that out.  Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with. If they were mine, Hercule would have died, painfully and publicly. 

Author’s notes: I know, I know, we’re on chapter 8 and the two “main characters” have hardly spoken. Well sirs, I can promise you some B/V interaction today, so step on up!

Also, I’ve been trying to be good about responding to signed reviews through emails or PMs, but for those of you who are not members, I wanted to say thanks as well. I won’t clutter up the author’s note with individual replies, but I hope you all know your kind words mean a lot to me. Special thanks to not_a_member, whose mysterious alias has shown up after pretty much every chapter. I wish I had your email, so I could thank you properly.

Lastly, I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. Several factors combined to make real life a bit of a dump for the past month.

 

PRESENT DAY

 

                “Bad news, Bulma,” Chichi said, handing the other woman a steaming mug of coffee. “I’ve just learned that Frieza’s soldiers have set up a blockade on Chisal. Every port city will be teeming with soldiers. They’re going to be inspecting cargo.”

                “What?” Bulma groaned, “Why?”

                “I don’t know. Speculation is that he’s caught wind of some renegade operation and is trying to catch the perpetrators red handed.”

                “Is it us?” Bulma asked, taking a sip and savouring the taste of the real, Earth-grown beans. Her father, while failing miserably on the pea-soup front, had at least thought to bring loads of coffee three years ago, when he’d stocked up the ship. In fact, if they were careful, Bulma figured they could keep themselves in the delicious brew for another five years, at least. “Are we the perpetrators he’s hoping to catch?”

                “Nobody knows what he’s looking for. Word around is that _he_ doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.” Chichi sighed and sipped her own extra strong beverage. She’d been up all night trolling the radio channels after hearing about the blockade, and she was exhausted. “He probably thinks someone is trying to smuggle weapons.” She said, “And maybe someone _is_ trying to smuggle weapons. You know what Chisal is like. It might not be us that he’s caught wind of.”

                “But what if it is us?”

                “Bulma,” Chichi interrupted in her most matronly voice, the one she knew made people shut up and listen. “We’re transporting _boxes._ Boxes! Nothing but empty storage containers. Nobody is going to throw us in intergalactic jail for that. They’ll never know about the encapsulation feature if you just disable it, or something.”

                Bulma frowned, thinking on that possibility. “I’m going to get in touch with Guru,” she said, “and see if he knows anything.” She looked at the clock and did a quick calculation in her head. “Damn, it’s the middle of the night on Chisal. I guess I’ll have to wait till later.”

                “Don’t worry yourself so much, Bulma.” Chichi smiled, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m sure it will be alright.”

*

                “So, we noticed you’ve been watching Chichi lately.” Roshi said, sidling up to Sixteen who was, in fact, watching the dark-haired woman. She and Krillin were sparring again, and he’d told himself he was simply there in case of injury to either party.

                “I don’t blame you, big guy,” Oolong appeared on Sixteen’s other side. He’d been ensnared in a pervert-sandwich. “She’s a fine piece of work.” The three of them watched Chichi slam into Krillin with a roundhouse kick, Roshi peeking over the tops of his sunglasses to watch her breasts bounce as she jumped backward to dodge Krillin’s return attack; a neat sweep of the leg aimed to kick her feet out from under her.

                “Shame she’s married.” Roshi sighed.

                “Goku’s not exactly around, is he?” Oolong straightened his suspenders and cupped a hand in front of his snout to smell his breath. “That makes her fair game.” He made ready to stride on over and seduce the panties off Chichi, when a large hand on his head halted him. Literally. He couldn’t move.

                “Do not.” Sixteen said, surprising even himself with the hard conviction in his voice. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the pig, bodily, to face him. “You will leave her be.”

                “You’ll just end up with a lump on your head for your troubles,” Roshi cautioned, “trust me, I know.” He pointed to a scar on the back of his bald head, which had been split open by one of Chichi’s frying pan attacks. “She did this to me back on Earth, imagine what she’s capable of doing now that she’s been training with Krillin.”

                “Oh whatever,” Oolong grunted, stepping backward and swatting Sixteen’s hand away, trying to save face. Why’d the big guy care so much, anyway? It’s not like he was making the move himself. “It’s not like she could handle me anyway. I don’t want some chick cramping my style.”

                “Plus, I just got this.” Roshi flashed a magazine in their faces. Oolong drooled, and Sixteen seemed perplexed. “Intergalactic babes, here we come!”

                “Those women have no clothes on.” Sixteen peered at the cover, which featured two very exotic looking humanoid females. They appeared to be hugging each other, and Sixteen wondered aloud why the two other men would care about the friendship of two naked women. Roshi and Oolong looked at each other, rolling their eyes as if to say ‘ _Is this guy for real?’_

                “You have a lot to learn, friend.” Roshi reached up to pat the tall android on the arm, only because he couldn’t reach the green-clad shoulder. “Come with us, will you? If Chichi catches us with this, we’re all in for a beating.”

*

*

                “So we were wondering if you’d heard anything else,” Bulma finished, having shared with Guru all of her knowledge regarding the impending blockade.

                “No, I am not certain who they are after, but I doubt they will become suspicious of the cargo you carry.” Guru answered, and Bulma could hear the stress in his voice, even if the only indication of it on the video link was a pair of downturned eyebrows. “No doubt they will be looking for weapons or dangerous materials.”

                “Yes, that’s what we thought as well.”

                “Blue, you must know that ordinarily I would not press you to complete the delivery under such dangerous circumstances,” Guru paused, troubled, “But the need for food and medicine grows stronger in the slaver colonies, and I see no other way to transport such large amounts so inconspicuously.”

                “I know, Guru. Don’t trouble yourself. We can handle it.” Bulma tried to reassure the old Namek, but his attention was elsewhere. She heard the door to the dome-house shut and saw Dende and Nail enter the room to give Guru their greetings. Dende handed the old sage a gourd of water, which he gratefully accepted.

                “I do have some comforting news, however.” Guru continued, after a sip and a nod to his two sons to sit down. “After I learned of the blockade myself, I spoke to Vengeance to see if he had any information. He did not, but he has assured me that if he cannot come to Boona himself, he will send someone trustworthy in his stead, to keep an eye on things.”

                “Vengeance?” Bulma shifted uneasily in her chair. They had not spoken since the night of her drunk-dial, and she wasn’t exactly sure what to think. “Guru, to be honest, I don’t know if I trust him, exactly. He almost killed us on Benthal Six.”

                “Vengeance will honour his word.” She could hear Guru chuckling to himself, a soft, wheezy sound. “But he will do it in his own way. Trust in him, Blue, he will not lead us astray.”

                “How do you know?” Bulma demanded, petulantly. “Do you even know who he is?”     

                “Child, I know him just as well as you do. I know the way he speaks with passion in his heart, and with hatred for the tyrant Frieza. He speaks truthfully at every turn, even when he knows that his answers are not the desired ones. He will be true to his word in ways you may not expect, but he is true nonetheless.”

                “Okay, okay, I get it.” Bulma sighed. “I just wish that I had the same faith in him that you do.” Guru laughed, his good nature triumphing even in a time of such stress.

                “You will.” He smiled at her through the video link, and she found she did feel a bit lighter. He was better than any self-help wizard or psychologist she’d ever met. If only she could talk to him about the crazy dreams she’d been having! “Ahh, I must go.” He said, as she heard the door open again. “I have visitors.”

                Bulma remained seated for a moment after signing off. She sighed and ran her palms up from her neck across her cheeks and up into her hair. She brushed her fingers through the silky curls – her latest hair experiment. She hadn’t been sure whether or not she wanted to go from straight as a board into a full on perm, so she’d opted for some nice waves. Or she’d wanted to, at least. Unfortunately for her, the resident hairstylist – aka Mom – had other ideas. What she’d ended up with was a bouffant to make any disco queen jealous. At first, she’d been horrified, but day by day it had grown on her, and she had to admit to herself that she was really working the afro.

Groaning, she hauled herself up out of her chair and into the common room, where most of the residents of Red Station were gathered, usually watching television, reading books, really doing whatever. Krillin, Roshi and Oolong played cards, while Mrs. Briefs tried to interest a confused and listless Tien in _‘All My Starsystems’_ , a daily drama that was as crazy and unpredictable as any Earth soap opera. Bulma’s father and Gero sat with a backgammon board between them, while Sixteen looked on. Puar and Chichi came into the room as Bulma did, just having finished the post-dinner kitchen clean up.

                “Listen up, folks. I have some bad news, and I have some good news...sort of.” She trailed off at a glare from her mother, who gestured at the television. Bulma rolled her eyes and waited for a commercial. Gods, sometimes she was hard pressed to remember that they were not on Earth anymore. “So anyway,” she raised her voice to be heard over an ad for Glorax’s Sprigot Powder, “I have some news about the delivery to Chisal.”

*

                “Hello, Monkey Prince.” Frieza’s icy cold voice dripped down Vegeta’s spine, though he refused to give in to the shiver that was working its way down his back.

                “My lord.” A slight incline of his head, as he adjusted his video screen so that the Emperor was in focus.                

                “I have a new assignment for you and those apes you call subjects.” Frieza sneered into his wineglass as he sniffed the drink, seemingly offended by its odour. He put the glass down on the arm of his hovering chair, once again deigning to grace the Saiyan prince with eye-contact. “Go to Chisal. Boona is the city, and keep an eye on the blockade there. My source has just informed me that not only is some transaction going on, but Vengeance or one of his underlings has promised to be in attendance. You will find him.”

                “What is the cargo that these renegades will be transporting?” Vegeta was glad that Frieza could only see him from the shoulders up. That way, he didn’t have to try and control the clenching of his fists or the agitated thrashing of his tail.

                “My source was unable to say.” The Saiyan let out the breath he had been holding. “But he assures me it is important, so watch for any weapons or chemicals that could be used in explosives.” The lizard scowled, plainly remembering the disaster that was Benthal Six. Months later, and his science departments were no closer to replicating the ki-circlet device than they had been at the beginning.

                “If I may ask, sir,” Vegeta said, allowing just a hint of insolent scepticism to creep into his voice, “Just who is this source of yours? He does not seem to know much.”

                “Do you doubt my judgement, Vegeta?” Frieza asked, dangerously. “You, who allowed my weapons factory to be destroyed? You, who allowed Vengeance to escape from right out under your pointed little nose?” He did not give the prince a chance to answer. “FIND HIM this time, Vegeta.” He snarled, and the screen went black.

“Shit, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Vegeta snarled, slamming his fist on the tabletop as he shut off his com-link. “Son of an Icejin whore!” he cursed, looking for something expendable to smash. Dirty plates from his dinner were swept carelessly to the floor, the crash and crack of broken pottery easing his rage. How had the slimy bastard found out? He had spoken of it to none of his contacts but Guru, who had presumably informed Blue as well. He was certain of his confidence in Guru; the old Namek would never turn on one of his allies. Blue, he was surprised to find he trusted her as well, but she was still somewhat of an unknown. He’d no idea who her accomplices were, save the one known as Monk, but he knew they existed, and he had a feeling that she was not nearly as particular as he in whom she gave her trust to.

Growling, he punched the table, his comm-unit crashing to the floor as the surface fell out from beneath it. Fuck, a mole. Now he was going to have to do some digging, and just when he’d thought things were going smoothly. Situations like this were exactly why he hadn’t let the other Saiyans in on his business. Sometimes, being a paranoid loner was a good thing.

*

*

In the end, Bulma, Krillin and Puar were once again the team chosen for the delivery. Smarts, strength, and shape shifting abilities just couldn’t be beat. Tien had expressed interest in going, had been downright insistent on it, in fact, but everyone else thought it best that he remained behind. Though they had never been great friends, everyone could tell that there was something off about the three eyed warrior. He hadn’t even mentioned Chautzu since they ‘d picked him up, for starters, and he’d been with them for weeks. Bulma suspected that he’d suffered some psychological damage and the others agreed. After all, he’d likely watched his best friend die in vain, only to be packed off to one filthy slave camp after another.

Tien had been visibly frustrated at being left behind, so Chichi had volunteered to stay as well, promising him that they could spar together, to help him get back in shape after the poor conditions he’d suffered under. Reluctantly, he’d agreed. After Chichi decided to stay, Sixteen quickly reminded everyone that Dr. Gero would undoubtedly need his help in the labs, preventing him from going, too. None of the others had the skills, so the three set to packing their small transport ship.

*

*

                “Oh shit.” Bulma stopped short, grabbed Krillin by the collar, and dragged him behind a pile of boxes that lay waiting to be inspected.

                “What is it, what’s going on?” Puar asked as he backed the hovering transport cart up to be close to them. He’d shifted into a totally alien form, a sort of reddish, rhino-looking creature that walked on three legs. He had a thick tail that dragged on the ground behind him, which was studded with what appeared to be bony spikes.

                “Fucking Saiyans, that’s what!” Bulma hissed, pointing across the hangar to where three familiar figures stood. “God, why did they have to turn up here? Vegeta will recognize me for sure, and they’ve all seen Krillin, too.” She smacked herself in the forehead, cursing fate.

                “Puar, you’ll have to go alone.” Krillin said, looking at the terrified rhino alien that was his good friend. “There’s no choice. We’ll stay here and watch, and then we’ll try to see if we can sneak out somewhere and meet up with you at Guru’s.”

                “No,” Puar shook his massive head. “They’ll only catch you on the way back in. None of them will recognize me.” He wished his fingers weren’t so thick, or else he’d have been crossing them for luck. “The two of you should go back to the ship and just wait till I get back.”

                “Are you sure?” Bulma asked, anxiously. “I don’t want you to go by yourself.”

                “I’ll be okay.” Puar assured them, trying his best to sound confident and brave. “Just tell me,” he cast a look at the Saiyans. At one Saiyan in particular, though his friends didn’t know that. “I don’t look...well, I don’t look even remotely human, do I?”

                “No. You look more like a dinosaur than a human.” Krillin assured the shapeshifter. “Why?”

                “Err...” He paused, casting about for an answer “I...um...didn’t want them to think I resembled you guys. Thought it might seem suspicious.” They both nodded, as though that made a lot of sense, which it didn’t, considering that looking human didn’t mean you were. Saiyans looked human too, and so did a select few other races that they’d come across. “Well, off I go, I guess.” He said, shoving the hover cart forward again. “I’ll see you back at the ship.”

*

                Radditz nearly groaned aloud when the familiar scent wafted into his nostrils, practically calling his name. His eyes, suddenly bright and alert after many boring hours watching men sort through cargo, scanned the crowd for a familiar head of blue hair. Either one would do, really, but he hoped for Puar, who’d already succumbed quite willingly to his advances and had showed signs of interest in future dalliances. The female – what had been her name? – had seemed put off by his attention. Frowning, he sniffed the air again. The scent was there, but he didn’t see any blue-haired Saiyanoids anywhere.

                Fuck. He was _so sure_ he smelled it. It was the exact scent that he’d been hoping to catch for the past month. How could so many creatures give off the same exact smell? Sure, certain species gave off similar scents, but he was confused as to why Puar, Malibu Barbie, and whoever the hell was wandering around now were _exactly_ the same. Same species or not, there was no way they could match perfectly, was there?

                Shaking his head in frustration, Radditz focused on pinpointing the source, and was surprised to see the bulky, red triped waiting patiently in line. Couldn’t be, could it? The creature shared none of the features that the other two had, but he knew that his nose had never failed him before. He uncrossed his arms, pushed himself away from the crates he had been leaning against, and took a few steps closer. The creature noticed him staring, and began to look nervous.

*

                Puar felt himself begin to sweat. Radditz was staring at him. Oh God, why was Radditz staring at him? He couldn’t know, could he? Puar surveyed his body, tough red hide, bulging stomach, thick tail dragging lazily in the dirt; he didn’t look at all the same. He’d modified his mouth, his face, he’d even changed his eyes, which was giving him a bit of a headache. He wouldn’t sound the same either; if he opened his mouth to speak, a grunty, gravelly sound would come out instead of the high pitched squeak of the cat, or the smooth drawl of the man Radditz would recognize.

                “What’s in the boxes?” Radditz asked, stopping next to Puar. The shapeshifter stared a moment, desperately wanting to turn tail and run. Instead, he swallowed bravely and stood his ground.

                “Nothing,” he said, trying to keep the shake from his voice. “Empty containers, is all.”

                “Open one.” The Saiyan commanded, and Puar did as he said, flipping the catch and pulling up the lid on the top box. Radditz peered inside.

                “What are they for?” He asked, pulling up the tray to see the empty storage compartment beneath.

                “Dunno. I’m just the delivery guy.”

                Radditz scowled, stared a moment too long into Puar’s eyes, before jerking his head to the left. “Put your cart through the x-ray scanner.” He commanded. “I don’t wanna have to inspect every box.” He watched, brows pinched together, as the red creature lumbered over to the big scanner and waited his turn. “Where you from?” He called out on a sudden impulse. “What planet?”

                Puar turned, surprised. “Earth,” he said, because lying would only complicate things if there were further questions. Surely the breadth of species that had existed on Earth would prevent the Saiyan from getting suspicious.

                “Earth?” Radditz seemed surprised, and Puar was unprepared for what happened next. “Brat!” he called, “C’mere!” Puar watched as a short little Saiyan jogged over, long hair tied back, a miniature of the man standing before him, except for the black eye. “Gohan,” Radditz said, and Puar could feel the colour draining from his leathery skin. “This guy says he’s from Earth. Maybe you know ‘im?”

                Gohan looked Puar carefully over, his little head cocking to one side, black eyes squinting. “Don’t know him,” he said, taking in the dinosaur-like features, “but he looks like he could be from Earth.” He looked down and frowned at the tripod arrangement of legs, which was odd even by Earth standards. “What city are you from?” Both Saiyans looked expectantly on, but Puar found he couldn’t speak. He could only stare, unbelieving, at the child before him.

                “G...” he began, but thought better of it, wondering what would happen if he revealed himself. “Gah.” He finished, stupidly. The Saiyans exchanged a look, and Gohan turned back to Radditz, as if to ask why he’d been dragged over. Radditz shrugged.

                “Must have been the shock of meeting another Earthling,” he suggested, once they’d left the creature to his business. “There can’t be many of you left.” Gohan nodded in agreement, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d met the rhino dino somewhere before.

*

*

                “I have news,” Was the first thing that Puar said, stepping foot back on the ship the next morning. Frieza’s barricade was still in place, but he hadn’t had any trouble getting back to Bulma and Krillin.         

                “Good or bad?” The monk asked.

                “I don’t know. Bad.” Puar ran a hand across his leathery face, then transformed back into his cat-shape with a sigh. He floated over toward the table where Krillin and Bulma were enjoying an early lunch. “The Saiyans have Gohan.” He said, having decided to just spit it out. Krillin’s jaw fell open and a piece of cheese fell out of his mouth, while Bulma simply stared, as though she’d heard him wrong.

                “Pardon me?” She said.

                “Gohan, he was with the Saiyans at the checkpoint.” Puar snatched up a piece of cheese, but instead of eating it, he just picked nervously at it with his paws. “He...looks like them. Like Radditz; the one with the long hair. He’s like Radditz in miniature. But he was hurt.”

*

*

                Bulma fought the urge to sneeze, and she fought it hard. They’d figured it out, of course, and felt like humongous idiots afterward. Goku’d had the tail, after all, and everyone in the universe had heard stories about the terrors of the Saiyan Oozaru form, which sounded suspiciously like what Goku had turned into so long ago. Bulma had been amazed that none of them had ever made the connection before, but Krillin had reminded her that it wasn’t like they came into regular contact with Saiyans anyway. It wasn’t like their monkey tailed, spiky haired, Oozaru-turning-into asses were in their faces all the time. Of course none of them had made the connection; they’d never had reason to think about it before. Still didn’t explain how Goku had ended up on Earth, of course, but that was the least of their concerns.

                They wondered if Chichi knew.

                Bulma lost the battle with her nose, and the sneeze escaped. All three of them froze, and Krillin and Puar both turned to glare at her, clearly indicating that if they were caught, she would not be forgiven any time soon. Bulma glared right back, clearly indicating that if they had spoken their thoughts aloud, she would have told them both to shut it. A few minutes passed, and nothing happened, so they began moving again, slowly, slowly, and ever so quietly, so as not to disturb the occupants of these quarters.

                Brave idiots that they were, they’d snuck into the military compound. It was Bulma’s stupid idea to rescue Gohan in the first place, even though Puar had assured them that a black eye seemed to be the only damage done to the child. Bulma had been very loud in her opinion that eight year old boys should not have black eyes, and besides that, who knew what kind of mental and emotional damage those monsters were inflicting? So she’d hacked into the empire’s databases, found out where the Saiyans were being housed, and off they’d gone in their typical ‘save the world’ fashion. It was a brash and impulsive move that would have made Goku proud.

Not total idiots, they’d at least put a little thought into their timing. The base wouldn’t be busy in the middle of the night, but there would still be soldiers on patrol, so they’d have to be careful. Puar’s shapeshifting was an easy disguise, as usual, and Krillin had pilfered a set of armour from a guard they’d incapacitated – just like in the movies, but with more stink, he’d joked – but that still left Bulma. Looking at her, Puar and Krillin agreed that there was no way she was passing for a soldier, even in regulation body armour. Her skin was too smooth, her arms too skinny, the list went on and on.

                “So I’m a hooker, then.” She’d snapped, kicking off her boots and reaching up under her skirt to tug her leggings off. Krillin stared, blushing, as she unbuttoned her blouse and tied it beneath breasts encased in a hot pink bra. “Wish I’d worn a pushup today.” She’d muttered as she mussed her hair up a little and hiked up her skirt. “What do you think?” She put her hands on her hips and faced her two friends. “Slutty enough? I look like a prostitute?”

                “I don’t want to answer that.” Krillin said, swallowing, as he tore his eyes away from her bouncing cleavage. He didn’t usually think of Bulma in _that_ way, but...well, damn. Even Puar had to stare a little, and he really wasn’t even into boobs.

                “Good, I’ll take that as a yes.” She said, and slipped her boots back on. “And for fuck’s sake, Krillin,” she reprimanded the smaller warrior, “stop blushing so much! It’s nothing you haven’t seen before!”

                So Bulma had jiggled her way across the compound, arm hooked through Puar’s, while Krillin trailed behind, grinning for all the world like he was about to enjoy sloppy seconds. No one stopped them, but there were a few whistles and more than one offer to bat cleanup. Krillin was glad that Puar was so big and scary looking; he was terrified that someone would step in and challenge them for the girl, but it looked like everyone who was out and about had a job to do.

                So that was how they’d come to be creeping through the Saiyans’ quarters, fully aware that any noise or sloppy movement could bring torture and death down on their asses.

                “How do we find Gohan?” Puar whispered. “Do we know what room he’s in?”

                Bulma shook her head. “We have to split up. This place is bigger than I thought it would be.”

                “Are you crazy?” Krillin hissed. “Don’t you watch movies? Splitting up is never a good idea.”

                “If we stay together, we’ll be here all night!” Bulma jabbed her finger toward a hallway. “You guys creep around together if you want, but I’m going that way.” Krillin rolled his eyes and took another hallway, while Puar quickly changed back to cat-form and floated toward a closed door. Easier to hide when you were small, he figured.

                Two minutes later, Bulma was regretting her idea. Once away from Krillin, friend and bodyguard, she began to realize just how perilous of a situation she was in. Unarmed – where to stick a gun in this outfit? – and dressed like a streetwalker, she’d be helpless to fend off any unwanted advances. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and consoled herself with the fact that nobody seemed to be wandering the halls this late. She debated untying and buttoning her shirt up properly, but thought that if she was caught, it was probably better to be mistaken for a lost hooker than a nosey snoop, so she left it the way it was.

                Bulma squinted in the dim light of the hallway, trying to read the nameplates on the doors. Most of them were blank, but when she saw Vegeta’s name boldly emblazoned across one panel, she had to fight with herself to control the panic fluttering in her chest. She was going to get herself killed! Swallowing her fear, she tiptoed past two more doors labelled ‘Nappa’ and ‘Radditz’ before coming to the one she sought. Gohan.

                Quickly, she tapped out a message on the communicators she’d given Puar and Krillin, to let them know she’d found his room. Even if he wasn’t in there now, they could at least hide there and wait until he showed up. She frowned when no response came from Puar, but Krillin’s response was quick; he’d be there as soon as he could.

*

                Radditz frowned, staring at the plant. Had it always been there? How come he hadn’t noticed it before? And perhaps, most importantly, why the hell did it smell like Puar?

                He growled and punched himself in the side of the head. “I must be going crazy.” He muttered, as he stepped closer to the plant and took a whiff, unaware of how nervous he was making it. First he’d scented Puar on the red thing at the checkpoint, and now on a plant? What the hell was wrong with him? He wondered if his nose was broken. Or maybe he’d been hit too hard on the head when sparring with Gohan that morning. The battle had been intense, but cut short for checkpoint duty before either one of them could do any serious damage to the other. Radditz grinned at the plant, all teeth. His nephew was getting stronger by the day, and was almost able to hold his own in the training ring.

                The plant’s leaves rustled, as though it was shaking, and Radditz pulled back in surprise. He looked toward the window, which was open, and rolled his eyes at his own behaviour. The breeze blew in again, hitting him full force with the scent that had been driving him crazy for a month. Radditz groaned, the sound of a man deeply pained. How lonely must he have been, he wondered, to be getting hot for a plant?

*

                Bulma held her breath as the door swished open, her back against the wall so that if there was anyone in the room, she wouldn’t be seen right away. Not hearing anything, she poked her head in and took note of the lone figure, asleep in his bed. Sighing her relief, she stepped into the room and gently shook him awake. “Gohan,” she whispered, “Gohan, wake up.” The boy muttered something unintelligible, but rolled groggily over.

                “What?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. “Do we have a mission?” He covered a great big yawn with his mouth, and were they under different circumstances, Bulma would have laughed to see the look on his face when he finally focused on her. “Bulma?” He hissed, incredulously, trying to keep his voice down as he flung the covers aside. “What are you doing here?”

                “We came to rescue you.” She hissed back, looking around the bare room. “Get your shit, er, stuff together. We’re getting you out of here?”

                “What are you talking about?” He grabbed her wrist, forcing her to look him in the eyes. She was shocked at the strength of his grip, surprised to see the corded muscles in his young arms. Most startling was the look in his eyes; a look that should have belonged to someone much older than this boy.

                “Gohan, listen to me.” She knelt before him, taking his other hand in hers, squeezing them. “Everybody that was in my ship with me, we made it away from Earth.” She paused, deciding not to tell him about the one death they still mourned. “Your mom is out there Gohan. She doesn’t even know you’re alive. We didn’t even know you were alive until this morning when Puar saw you at the checkpoint.”

                Gohan squirmed, guiltily. How could he tell her that the reason they didn’t know he was alive, was because he hadn’t wanted them to know? “Have you told my mother yet?” Gohan asked, and was relieved when she shook her head.

                “We wanted to wait until we had you safely back with us.” Bulma beamed at him. “Oh, Gohan, you have no idea how happy she will be to see you.” He cringed, and her smile faltered as she sensed something wrong. “Gohan?”

                “I can’t go with you.” He said, pulling his hands away from hers. She stared, stupidly, at his little fingers, sliding from her grasp. She didn’t understand.

                “Gohan, you have to come with me.” Her voice was shaky. She thought he’d be happy at the prospect of seeing his mother again. What kind of brainwashing had they done? “You have to come away with us. You can’t stay here with the Saiyans.”

                “Of course he can.” A sneering voice said, and two heads whipped around to see Vegeta lounging in the open doorway. “He is one of us. He is ours.” He crept into the room, quietly, like a cat, his eyes never leaving hers. He shut the door behind him, and Bulma heard Gohan gulp. Vegeta must have heard it too, for he turned to the boy. “And what would make her think different, runt?” He stared the child down, menacingly. Gohan jumped up to face the prince, and to Bulma’s surprise, bowed at the waist.

                “Prince Vegeta,” he squawked in surprise, belatedly straightening his pyjamas. Watching him, Bulma noticed that Vegeta wore the same standard issue black drawstring pants and black tank top. She grinned at the idea of army pyjamas, and thought to herself it was just as well they weren’t covered with a cutesy design. Maybe a result of her deranged mind, maybe a nervous reaction to staring death in the eye, she couldn’t help but imagine Vegeta and Gohan decked out in matching printed onesies. What would they have on them, she wondered. Sports print? Plaid? Cartoon dinosaur print? She stifled a giggle, but was unable to contain the snort that escaped her.

                Stupid move!

                Vegeta’s head snapped up, his death glare hitting her square on and nearly stopping her heart in her chest. He moved toward her, sidestepping around Gohan who was still bowing respectfully, though she could see a tremor of fright run down his spine. Vegeta stopped two feet away, arms crossed over his chest, and Bulma felt her cheeks redden as his eyes raked her exposed body, lingering on her breasts and the hemline of her skirt. Defiantly, she stood straight up, proudly jutting out her chin and puffing up her chest. Vegeta raised one eyebrow and looked her in the eyes, as if to say _‘Is that a challenge?”_ Instead, he turned toward the child and motioned for him to straighten up.

                “Brat, would you like to tell me,” Vegeta began, in a tone of voice that clearly stated he knew something was up, “what a boy of eight years is doing with a whore in his quarters?” Gohan turned beet red and began to sweat.

                “I...um...I...I...” Gohan stammered, trying to think of something to say.                

                “Starting a bit young, aren’t you?” Vegeta turned and took another step toward Bulma. She watched his tail uncoil from around his waist, to sway lazily behind him, and she had to fight the urge to reach out and grab it. That would certainly show him, the smug bastard, but it would certainly get her killed, as well. She stood still, glaring silently at him as he began to circle her, dark eyes taking her in, roving over every curve. “Though I will admit, brat, that you have good tastes.” He was standing behind her, a hair’s breadth away from pressing his body against hers, and she shivered to feel his warm breath caressing her neck. His fingers, rough and calloused, danced across her ribcage, light as butterflies but heavy with the promise of the pain that he could dole out, if he so chose. His tail tickled her thigh, curling round it and snaking up beneath her skirt. She cried out and moved to step away from him when the tip flickered between her thighs, twitching against her panties, but he was too quick for her. Before she knew what was happening, he’d clamped his arm around her waist, drawing her back so hard against his chest that it nearly knocked the wind out of her.

                “Stop it!” Gohan yelped as Vegeta grabbed her breast. Bulma shrieked and tried to pry his hands off of her body, but she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her when his fingers found her nipple through her clothing.

                “What’s the matter, brat?” Vegeta spat out, a mocking grin on his face. “This is what whores are for.”

                “She’s not a whore!” Gohan shrieked, as the room began to shake. Tears streamed down Gohan’s face as he made an effort to control his power. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t attack Vegeta, but he couldn’t let him do _that_ to her, either. “You’re not like that!” He cried, hysterically. “You don’t do that!” Vegeta’s head cocked to the side as he observed the boy, shaking and sobbing, before him.

                “You’re right.” Vegeta said, suddenly releasing Bulma. He shoved her aside and she thudded against the wall, before sliding down flat on her ass. “I don’t. And neither do you.” He snarled, reaching out to grab Gohan by his shirtfront. “Now, you little shit, you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on in here, or I’m going to kill your pretty little friend, and I’m going to make you watch.”

                “It’s nothing,” Gohan began, but Bulma interrupted him, pushing herself away from the wall.

                “Nothing, my ass!” She huffed, tugging her skirt down to a decent level as she talked. “I’m here to take him HOME, you pig!” She ignored the warning snarl from Vegeta’s throat and stalked toward the pair. “His family and friends are waiting for him.”

                Vegeta was silent a moment, stunned by her boldness, amused by her words. Entranced, too, by her bouncing cleavage, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. He opened his mouth, and laughed in her face. “Like I told you, you snivelling bitch, he’s ours.”

                “Why don’t you let him choose, you fucking monkey!” Bulma snapped back. Before she had a chance to react, Vegeta was on her, hands fisted in her shirt, ploughing her backwards against the wall. She hit with a thump hard enough to crack the plaster and knocked the back of her head so that she saw stars.

                “Vegeta!” Gohan screamed, grabbing fistfuls of the older man’s shirt, trying to drag him off of the dazed Earthling. “Don’t kill her Vegeta, don’t kill her!”

                “Don’t you fucking order me around, brat!” Vegeta snarled, knocking Gohan back with a blow from one elbow. He loosed his hold on Bulma’s shirt, and she began sliding down the wall, moaning as her brains attempted to right themselves. “I’ll kill whoever I damn well please.”

                “You can’t kill her!” Gohan protested, as the prince turned back to the woman who dared call him a monkey. “I...I...” Gohan’s brains whirred like so many gears spinning, as he tried to think of something besides what he knew about her as Blue. In the state of mind that Vegeta was in, he’d probably kill them both for the knowledge that he was Vengeance. “I owe her a life debt!” He shouted out, the answer coming to him in a flash. “She...uh...she saved my dad!” He tried not to shake as Vegeta turned around, the older man making a visible effort to control himself. Gohan had no idea if what he was saying was true or not, but it was his only shot. “And since he’s not around, the life debt is transferred to me.”

                “That is not their custom, brat.” Vegeta snarled, surprisingly calm for one who was about to commit murder. “The rules do not apply.”

                “But it’s your custom,” Gohan insisted, “and mine.” He met Vegeta’s eyes, unflinching, and the older Saiyan sighed. He stepped away from Bulma’s battered body.

                “The debt is paid,” he said, “I will not kill her today. But,” he turned to Bulma, whose eyes were wide with shock, “the boy stays here and you will make no further attempts to remove him from his people.”

                Bulma shook her head, looking to protest as she stood on wobbly legs. “Don’t worry, Bulma,” Gohan beat her to it. “I already told you, I can’t come with you.”

                “But Gohan,” Bulma struggled for words. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. “Your mother, she...” She trailed off, lamely. How could she just go, and leave this precious child, the son of her best friend, in the hands of these monsters?

                “About that...I would prefer if you didn’t tell her about this.” He looked into her shocked, hurt face, and felt guilt gnawing on his insides. “Think about it.” He tried to be cold, tried to think about how Vegeta might act in such a situation. “She is weak. The knowledge would crush her.”

                “What have you become?” Bulma shook her head, sadly, and the raging guilt took another big bite out of him.

                “Saiyan.” He watched her stumble out of the room, could feel Krillin’s ki there, waiting, and knew she would be safe with him. He looked up at Vegeta and could tell the older man could smell the human warrior cowering just outside the door.

                “I suppose you owe _him_ a life debt, too?” Vegeta sneered, once the door had shut behind the female. When Gohan nodded, Vegeta could only laugh; a short, amused bark that ended as quickly as it began. Gohan stood, a little shocked at Vegeta’s quick change in attitude, but too weary to dwell on what lay behind this bit of good fortune.

                “Thank you, my prince.” He said, executing a perfect bow with his small body. Vegeta snorted, and Gohan shot upright once more.

                “You shouldn’t be so attached to them, just because they come from your birth planet.” Vegeta scoffed. “It makes you vulnerable. It makes you weak.”

                “Hypocrite.” Gohan said softly. “This from the man who scours the universe looking for members of the Saiyan race, who gathers us together and protects us.”

                Vegeta spread his arms wide, inviting the boy to look upon him, to see the scars threading across his arms, disappearing beneath the fabric of his shirt. Gohan knew those scars like the back of his own hand. “What has it brought me, cub?” Vegeta asked. “Would you wish it upon yourself?” When the boy said nothing, the prince dropped his arms. “Clean up this mess,” he said, disgustedly, “and get to bed.”

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This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write. Hopefully not too difficult to read, as a result. Please consider leaving a review! I would love some more feedback!

Also, I’ve revived an old mailing list I had from a long time ago. If you would like to be notified of updates and such, either send me an email or leave me a review with your email in it, and I’ll send you an invite.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with. If I did, Dr. and Mrs. Briefs would have FIRST NAMES! Blergh!

Author’s Notes: Apparently I’m on a crusade to make Puar and Radditz the new DBZ supercouple, because the madness continues.

                Also, I hate to say this, but there may be delays with the next few chapters. Something very cool could happen, but only with some time and effort on my part, which means I won’t have as much time for this. It’s temporary, I promise.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Vegeta lay on his bed, sheets and blankets balled up at his feet. Fuck. He should have known that he’d be in for a sleepless night the minute he’d heard her voice. It had hit him like a spacepod at full speed, crashing into his chest and knocking him backwards with the intensity of his surprise. Blue. Fucking Blue, in the bedroom right down the hall, trying to steal the brat away. He hadn’t known that she was from Earth, or that she knew Gohan. He realized that he didn’t know nearly as much about her as he thought he did, and it disturbed him.

                It hadn’t been a great idea to go into the room and risk exposing himself – after all, if he knew her voice, what was to stop her from recognizing his?- but he’d done it anyway. He’d just had to know if the busty bimbo from the weapons factory was, in fact, Blue, as he’d suspected. So much for being a bimbo. He’d thought, on first sight, that the bigger the tits, the smaller the brain, but he’d been wrong. He knew what she was capable of, if her progress with Frieza’s ki-technology was any indication. In her case, the enormous jugs were probably auxiliary storage for extra brains. No way was all that genius fitting inside her pretty little head. Then again, considering the way she’d acted tonight- sneaking into one of Frieza’s bases in the guise of a prostitute, of all things- perhaps common sense had been scrapped to make room for technical knowledge.

                But with a body like that, what else could she have been taken for? She did not look strong enough to be mistaken for a soldier on sight, and no one else would have a legitimate reason for traipsing around the base in the middle of the night. She was smart, and she’d done what was necessary to get in, even if it meant putting herself in danger. And, holy fuck, had she ever.

                He groaned, remembering the weight of her breast in his palm, so soft and round. Gods, he hadn’t meant to _feel_ anything when he touched her! He’d only wanted to mess with the kid, but he’d quickly lost control of himself, and that was something he never did. Dangerous bitch, with her lightning mind and tempting curves. He’d wanted to throw her down and fuck her, just like he’d wanted to do at the weapons factory. Even when she’d thrown the m-word in his face, he’d never really planned on killing her, but the thought of humiliating her, breaking her down and tearing off her clothes, had made him ashamedly hard. He wondered if she knew how lucky she’d been to escape with her dignity intact.

                Cracking one eye open to verify that his door was locked, Vegeta loosened the drawstring on his pants and lifted his rear off the bed to tug them low on his hips. He closed his eyes and took hold of himself, imagining those impetuous lips, that snake’s tongue. He could smell her still, on his clothes and skin, and it was driving him mad. He imagined her there, in his bed, rubbing that soft, pliant body against his, straddling him with warm, smooth thighs. She’d been frightened when he touched her, but beneath that she’d been aroused by him. He’d smelled it all over her, desire emanating from every pore, and felt the evidence of it on his tail between her legs.

                Vegeta felt a brief trill of shame jolt through his body at that thought. He hadn’t planned to touch her there; even if it was just a flick of the tail over wet panties, it had terrified her. She’d thought she was about to be raped, and though he wasn’t about to descend into pits of remorse and self loathing over the matter, it wasn’t exactly something he was proud of either. It wasn’t that he had any particular aversion to rape, he just didn’t get off on it. He was indifferent to the pain and suffering he caused, not excited by it, and for Vegeta, there was no pleasure in mounting a screaming, crying, struggling woman. He’d sooner not bother with the whole business if there were no willing females available. He’d a perfectly good imagination and a dextrous right hand at his disposal.

                Beside that fact, Blue was his ally, whether or not she was aware of it. He was a prickly bastard, that was true, but he was loyal to those who returned the favour. He’d hurt her in the name of the cause without batting an eye, but never for personal satisfaction. Not without provocation, at least.

                Did she know? His mind flitted back to that ever important question, as his fingers flitted over hard flesh. Had she figured it out? He always tried to disguise his voice when he spoke as Vengeance on the comlink, but Blue was distracting. Ever since meeting her at the weapons factory, he couldn’t help but to picture that gorgeous girl with the blue hair, face stunned as she looked down from her position on his lap. He’d hadn’t been certain that it was even her, at the time, but he was now.

                Vegeta groaned, allowing his mind to linger on the memory of her warm weight pressing down on him, lips pursed in that surprised little ‘o’ that sent wicked thoughts racing through his brain. He imagined it was her mouth wrapped around him then, rather than his own hand, taking him deep into her throat, moving faster and faster until he spilled himself, with a grunt.

                He opened his eyes and sighed, wishing that she were there, if only for the fact that there wouldn’t be a mess for him to clean up.

*

*

                “So, what do we tell her?” Krillin asked the two miserable faces opposite him. He, Bulma, and Puar had all made it back to the ship safely, though Krillin and Bulma had been seriously worried at the time it took for Puar to meet up with them. His tale of being stuck in the kitchen, masquerading as a plant while Radditz ate a midnight snack big enough to feed the inhabitants of Red Station for a month, would have been amusing, if not for the dark mood that hung over the trio.

                They’d managed to avoid the topic last night and all through launch prep that morning, but it was several hours into their journey and Bulma had decided that enough was enough; they were going to talk about Gohan.

                “Gohan asked me not to tell her anything.” Bulma repeated, having already given her friends a detailed play-by-play of her encounter with Gohan, minus the part where Vegeta molested her, of course. She was sure that Krillin had heard the words, but she wasn’t about to tell him how the Saiyan Prince, terror of the universe, had groped her boobs and tickled her no-no spot with his tail. She squirmed, remembering the slow slide of it up her thigh, the way his fingers had danced across her skin, the scent of him filling up her nostrils. She was embarrassed at the knowledge that she’d gone to bed that night and imagined how it would have played out, had Gohan not been there.

Like some sort of twisted, bodice-ripper novel, she’d imagined herself panting and protesting, before finally giving in to his rough but gentle touch. _Seduction in Space. An Alien Love. The Saiyan’s Lady._ She’d even thought up some hokey titles for a nonexistent book that she’d have snapped up, had it been for sale. Bulma was too smart to romanticize their encounter for long, however; she understood that the Saiyan Prince Vegeta was no tender beast. In real life, she knew she’d have been fucked like an animal.

                The thought was not unappealing.

                “Can we really do that, though?” Puar put in, his squeaky voice drawing Bulma away from her fantasies. “Is it fair to Chichi to deny her the knowledge that her son is alive?”

                “Is it fair to crush her with the knowledge that her son is alive and would rather hang out with those monsters than come back to her?” Krillin sighed, looking forlorn. “Man, I knew Chichi was tough,” he said, only half-joking, “but really? Was it that bad?”

                “Of course not, don’t be stupid!” Bulma snapped, rising to the defence of her friend. “Gohan’s a kid, he’s too young to know what’s good for him. And those Saiyans probably fed him a load of bullshit about his people or whatever,” she continued, acidly, “so that he thinks he belongs with them.”

                “Still though, his ki seemed fine. Didn’t feel like he was hurt or anything. Maybe a bit distressed when Vegeta...ah...erm,” Krillin broke off awkwardly as colour flooded Bulma’s face. “Anyway,” he mused, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, “maybe he came by that black eye honestly.”

                Bulma was incredulous. “What are you saying, Krillin? That we should just leave him there and pretend we never saw him?”

                “No,” Krillin glared at her, “I’m saying that he’s probably not in any immediate danger of death, so maybe we stop panicking. We take some time to figure this out before barging in there again.”

                “Unacceptable.” Bulma shook her head. “No way are we leaving him there. Not for long, at least.” Krillin sat up straight at the curious tone that had suddenly entered her voice. He shot her a look and she grinned, triumphantly. “Vengeance,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “He’ll get us in there. I know he can.” 

                “That guy again?” Puar and Krillin both muttered at the same time, but it was Krillin who continued speaking. “Bulma, do you think that’s wise? He’s going to want to know why you’re so interested in the newest member of Team Saiyan. I don’t trust him.”

                “He hasn’t let us down, yet.” She protested.

                “Are you kidding? He nearly killed us, he didn’t tell us that he knew we’d be meeting with Guru, he wasn’t anywhere to be seen at the checkpoint yesterday, and he didn’t even tell us that there were going to be Saiyans!”

                “You don’t know, Krillin. Maybe he didn’t know about the Saiyans either, and of course he didn’t show himself because we didn’t run into any trouble. It was never going to be a meet and greet.” Bulma crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared him into submission.     

                “Whatever, Bulma,” he sighed, “do what you want. You’re the genius, after all. But leave me outta this conversation. That guy gives me the creeps.” Puar nodded vigorously beside him. Bulma huffed and pushed herself away from the table.

                “Don’t forget to thank me when I get Gohan back.” She snapped, before whirling around and stalking out, leaving the _boys_ to their devices. She was going to talk to a _man_.

*

*

                _Puar,_ the message simply said, _do you remember how I felt inside you? Because I sure as shit do. –Radditz._

                He stared at the screen for a few moments, dumbstruck by the words printed there. It was short and it was crass, but it was there, in front of him, proof that the burly Saiyan was thinking about him. Puar wasn’t expecting romantic words or drawn out declarations; truth be told, he didn’t want them. The idea of Radditz spouting poetry made him cringe a little. Hell, he was surprised just to get a message in the first place, and more than elated. Did he remember? Fuck yes, he did. How could he forget the craziest, stupidest, most wonderful thing he’d ever done?

                He hit reply and sat back, nervously waiting for the screen to load. He’d no idea how to respond. He’d never really been in a relationship, and wasn’t even sure if this constituted as one in the first place. More than likely, he was just being booty-called. He’d had sex, only a couple of times, always using forms and names that he’d never assume again. Always one night stands with strangers who didn’t look and act like they’d gladly roast his normal form on a spit and eat him for lunch. He didn’t quite know how to react to that. Gods, how he wished he could talk to Bulma about it. She understood this whole bad boy thing, she’d know what to say and do, but she didn’t even know about the “new” Puar and how he’d gone and made it in a cheap hotel with a mass murderer. Did the bad boy justification even extend to cover murderers, or was that just too far? Puar had no idea.

                _Hot and hard._ He typed, carefully hitting each key with his paws, one at a time, as he floated over the keyboard. His whole body was quivering with nervous excitement, fur standing on end. He hit ‘send’ before he had a chance to regret it. The computer chimed and a message popped up, indicating that his letter had been sent. He promptly regretted it.

                “What am I doing?” He squeaked to himself, catching his reflection in the computer screen. A little blue cat with a cream coloured face stared back at him, its eyebrows knit together with concern and an anxious cast to his mouth. “He’s going to eat me, if he ever finds out.”

*

*

                Chichi gasped, doubling over as Tien’s bare foot collided with her stomach. He whirled on one foot, the momentum of his leg against her side knocking her off her feet and sending her skidding across the floor. So much for going easy on him, she thought, as she dragged herself up off the mat and onto her feet. He was waiting, crouched low, studying her with an intensity far beyond what was expected in a normal sparring match.

                She shook her arms out and stepped into her own fighting stance, readying herself for his next move. She’d thought to go soft on him, fresh as he was from the violence and despair of the slaver camps, but it appeared as though he needed the exact opposite. “You wanna take it all out on me,” she snapped, surging toward him, “FINE!” She feinted with her right arm, and when he blocked his stomach she punched him in the face with her left. He stumbled, surprised. “But be prepared, Tien, I give as good as I get!” She swung her leg out, but this time he was prepared for her. He grasped her ankle and pulled her off balance so that she crashed to the floor.

                Half expecting the move, Chichi rolled quickly back to her feet and attacked again, engaging Tien with a volley of fast punches and hard kicks. He was in surprisingly good form, blocking most, but returning those that landed with his own. They would both walk away from this bruised and sore, but better for it in the end. Chichi needed the exercise and the experience of fighting someone new, and Tien needed the chance to release some of the pent up frustration and pain he was carrying around with him. Chichi could see that he’d already begun to liven up a little more, even away from the training mat.

                Still, she thought, delivering a roundhouse kick that sent him flying, he could use some work. She watched him for a few seconds, and bounded over to where he lay, when he did not immediately spring back into action. “Done for the day?” She asked kindly, extending a hand to help him up. He nodded, allowing her to pull him to his feet after a moment’s hesitation.

                “My strength is not what it used to be,” he said, sounding bitter. Chichi nodded, but did not pry. Everyone knew how poorly people were treated in the slaver camps; malnourishment and illness reigned, while strength and muscles wasted away. Tien had survived three years in a place where normal people were lucky to last three months.

                “It will get better with time.” Chichi said, recalling how bruised and broken her body had felt after taking up her training again. She felt a twinge of something akin to guilt, that she had let her strength go to waste while she spurned the fighting arts in favour of becoming a wife and mother. Without a mother herself, her father had taken her under his wing, but as she’d grown older, a series of tutors had beaten it into her head that proper ladies take care of the home, including the needs of the husband and children. Proper ladies were slender and delicate, and did not have muscles to rival their husband’s. Foolish girl that she’d been, she’d eaten it all up, tossing aside her hard-won strength and technique like so much trash. Damn the tutors. Watching the Earth crumble, realizing that she’d never see her beloved family again, she wished she’d never fallen for their outdated ideas. Maybe then she’d have been kinder to Goku about training Gohan. Maybe she’d have joined them, trained together with them. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? Her jealousy of Goku’s freedom to be who he was, to feel the power rushing through his body; the heady thrill of facing an opponent brought no shame for him. Truly, she’d felt left out. It wasn’t fair that she’d been stuck inside, cooking the meals, doing the dishes, being the good wife and mother, while her husband and son knew the thrill of battle that had once coursed through her veins.

                And it was all gone now. That life, that crushing, soul destroying existence was gone. Along with it, the two greatest loves of her life.

                Shaking her head, trying to clear her thoughts, Chichi made her way toward the ladies’ changing room. Absently, she wondered at its existence, seeing as before their arrival three years ago, the space station had been occupied solely by Dr. Gero and his all-male team of androids. Then again, the old bugger was so secretive; perhaps there had been a female here at one point, or plans for one’s residence.

                Sixteen was waiting for her when she came out, as he often was. She saw the careful way his eyes scanned her, searching for injuries, for any excuse to bring her back to his little medical bay, and she was flattered, and embarrassed. He’d been such a gentlemen, helping her out while she was injured; she’d have had no idea he liked her, if Bulma hadn’t clued her in to all the times she’d caught him staring. He’d seen her naked. She knew he hadn’t ogled, but she wondered what he’d thought about while his big hands lifted her out of the tub, touching her bare, wet skin, even only in innocent places.

                The thought sent an unexpected jolt through her body and she found her cheeks hot with the sensation. How long had it been since she’d been touched by a man? Since Goku, of course. More than three years had passed since she’d known sweat slick ecstasy of a hard body against hers, and she was surprised to find that she missed it.

                “Sixteen,” she said, pushing the changeroom door open again, “come here.” She ignored the niggling little voice in the back of her head that told her to stop, to think, to talk to her friends about it. Bulma wouldn’t be back for at least another week, and there was no way she was talking to Mrs. Briefs or any of the guys about such a thing.

                “But that is the ladies’ room.” He said, puzzled. “I am not permitted there.”

                “There isn’t anyone else in there. Don’t worry, no one will come in.” She stepped into the doorframe and looked at him over her shoulder. “So come here.”

                Nervously, Sixteen did as he was told, ducking his head to fit through the doorway. It was muggy and hot inside from the shower she’d taken, but he wasn’t bothered by it. He watched as moisture settled on her skin and made the drying ends of her hair curl up. He sat down on a bench, while she stood before him, unbuttoning her blouse. She let it drop to the floor.

                “Chichi, are you okay?” Sixteen asked, seeing the bruises on her arms and ribs. Was that why she had invited him in? An emergency medical inspection?

                “Shh,” she whispered, leaning forward to put a finger on his lips. Her breasts plumped enticingly between her forearms, and she saw his eyes dart quickly to that forbidden part of her anatomy before returning to her face. She thanked Kami for good-quality bras, recalling how her breasts had never regained all of their original perkiness after having nursed Gohan.

Sitting, Sixteen was still nearly as tall as she stood regularly. He stopped trying to talk, and she replaced her finger with her lips, tentatively kissing the big android, trying to put other thoughts out of her mind.

                Goku was dead, she thought, as she lowered herself onto Sixteen’s lap, knees braced on either side of the bench to straddle him. There was no reason why she shouldn’t move on. She grabbed Sixteen’s large hands and placed them on her hips, while she reached for the zipper of his pants. Steeling herself, she slipped one hand beneath his waistband. She had to move on. She _had_ to, or she’d die of loneliness, clutching at the past with withered old fingers.

                “Chichi, I...” Sixteen trailed off, as her wide, surprised eyes met his.

*

*

                As it turned out, Bulma did not need to contact Vengeance herself, as he was already waiting for her to accept a voice link by the time she got to the communications center of the ship. She felt a little guilty at the way she’d treated Krillin and Puar, implying as though they didn’t want to help get Gohan back, but she was feeling too prideful to go back and apologize right away. Maybe later.

                “The operation went well?” Vengeance said, omitting the ‘hi, how are you?’ as usual. Bulma frowned; his voice seemed deeper than usual. Something clawed at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t place it.

                “The operation went fine. But I need your help.” She replied, and on the other end, Vegeta breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t seem to have recognized his voice.

                “No.” He said.

                “Ugh, don’t be an ass. This is important. What do you know about the little Saiyan?”

                “The Halfling, you mean?” Vengeance asked, sounding suitably surprised. “Why do you want to know?”

                “Because he’s my best friend’s son.” Bulma said, opting for the truth and hoping to shock him. When he didn’t respond, she assumed that she had been successful. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but for some stupid reason that will probably get me killed, I trust you. I need to get him away from the Saiyans. I don’t care how, as long as he comes out unharmed.”

                “You’re asking me to kidnap a Saiyan?” Vengeance sounded incredulous. “Are you crazy?” He growled.

                “What, you can’t do it?” She lashed out, hoping to sting his pride.

                “Believe me Blue, I am more than capable of dealing with the Saiyans,” he said, dangerously, “but this has nothing to do with my goals. I will not waste my time or my resources because you don’t like the babysitter.”

                “You son of a bitch!” She hissed. “How can you knowingly leave a child with those monsters?”

                “To my knowledge, he has been with them for over two years, and he is not dead yet. Besides that, I already told you, I don’t give a shit about it.”

                “Vengeance,” she begged, “please. His father was like a brother to me. Gohan is practically my nephew.” She sighed softly, as silence surrounded her. He’d either paused to think, meaning she’d got to him, or he’d hung up, meaning she’d pissed him off.

                “ _Practically_ doesn’t cut it,” he said, after a moment, “when he’s Radditz’s nephew for real.” Bulma’s eyes widened. Why hadn’t Gohan mentioned it? “According to my sources, the Saiyans sent an infant named Kakarott to Earth before Vegetasei was destroyed. It would appear that your _best friend_ ” he sneered the words, “was one of those monsters. Radditz’s brother.”

                “What, like you’re such an old fashioned family man?” She didn’t know what to think, so she pushed forward, belligerently. “ I don’t care if Radditz is his Uncle, those bastards have no right to be raising a child! And how do you know, anyway?” She pressed, wanting to believe that he’d made it up.

                “You come to me for information, and then you doubt the answers I give you?” He growled, churlishly. “Like I have said before, Blue, I make it my business to know. Just as I’ve made it my business to know that we have an information leak. Frieza somehow knew that I planned to be on Chisal, and that information was restricted to you, me and Guru. I know I didn’t tell.”

                “What, you think it was me?” Bulma gasped, surprised and a little bit disappointed in his lack of trust.

                “No, I do not. But I do believe that you are likely too trusting of your companions. Find the leak,” he said, his voice dark, “and stop it.”

                As usual, he made his exit unexpectedly and without closing remarks, completely ignoring the unresolved issue of Gohan. “Bastard.” Bulma muttered to herself as she flicked off the dead radio and leaned back in her chair. “What a mess,” she moaned, irritated. Who on the station would betray them? She didn’t want to be in this situation. It made her sick to think that one of her friends might have sold them all out. Someone she trusted had put all of their lives on the line. And to make matters worse, Gohan was still stuck with the Saiyans, indefinitely. Vegeta would surely kill her if she made another attempt to kidnap the child, and she was sure that no excuses would save her if she dared defy his orders this time.

                And why had Vengeance defended the Saiyans, anyway? He was supposed to be on her side. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t defended them, she amended, but he’d definitely been a prick about the whole matter. The man had no respect for life. She wondered what on Earth he was doing, teamed up with a saint like Guru against the tyrant Frieza, if he couldn’t even be bothered to muster up a drop of sympathy for a poor, eight year old kid who’d suddenly been dropped with Uncle Murderer and Co.

                Guiltily, she recalled the way Gohan had bowed, prostrating himself before that arrogant ass, Vegeta. He’d seemed so frightened, but in truth, the fear was for her sake, and the man hadn’t done either of them any lasting damage. Not that she knew of, anyway. Suddenly, she had terrible images in her mind of the punishment Gohan must have received when she left.

                “Go ahead,” She cried, hearing the shuffle of footsteps in the doorway, “tell me I’m an idiot for hoping that Vengeance would help us. Go ahead and rub it in my face.”

                “I’m not here to rub anything in your face,” Krillin sighed. “And if anyone was going to be able to get Vengeance to help us, it was you.”

                “I’m a fool for thinking, even for a second, that he’d be a nice guy. I mean really, he’s a complete jerk, what made me think he’d help out?”

                “You see the goodness in the worst people, that’s what.” Krillin put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them in a friendly neck rub. “You know,” he paused, “I thought I heard him hesitate for a second before he dropped that Radditz’s nephew bomb on you.”

                “Are you trying to comfort me with that, Krillin?” She laughed bitterly. “That bastard was probably just thinking of the most hurtful way to say it.”

                “Well, you know him best.” The monk shrugged, removing his hands from her shoulders and coming around to sit in the chair beside her. “We’ll figure it out, Bulma. I know we will. Gohan’s a tough kid. He’ll survive until we can get him out of there.”

                “And in the mean time? What do we tell Chichi?”

                “We don’t tell her anything. Not yet, at least. I couldn’t bear to see her crushed again, if something should happen before we’re able to get him back.” Krillin couldn’t help the guilty look that spread across his face. “Though I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so low in my life.”

                “Me too.” Bulma agreed, shaking her head. “Krillin, one more thing? Could you maybe...maybe keep quiet for me, about the leak? I don’t want anyone else to know, until I figure it out.”

*

*

                “Hey,” said a tired voice from the adjacent cell, “how long do you think it’s been since they fed us?”

                Piccolo sighed, glaring over at his neighbour. “They have not fed me, as I do not eat.” Truthfully, he’d been sneaking his portions to the man.

                “Okay, fine. If you want to get picky, how long has it been since they fed _me_?”

                “Three or four days, at least.” Piccolo tried to recall, but his brain was not functioning at optimum levels. Water was given out only every two days or so, to keep the stronger slaves in a constant state of slight dehydration, thus making them lethargic and easy to control.

                “Man, I sure am hungry.” Said his companion, whose stomach released a howling gurgle, as if to emphasize his statement.

                “Try not to think about it, Goku.” The Namek responded, closing his eyes against the glaring sun. He was a little worried about his former enemy, whose boundless energy and enthusiasm seemed significantly dampened under their less than hospitable living conditions. He could tell that his old enemy’s strength was waning, due to the constant starvation imposed upon him, as well as the lack of opportunity to train. His mental condition was not optimal, either.

                “What should I think about instead?” Goku rubbed his yowling tummy as he lay back down in the dirt, feeling as though his body was too heavy to remain sitting.

                “Whatever you please.”

                “If I start thinking about other things, I’m worried I won’t be able to stop.” Goku said, caught in a once-rare but ever increasing moment of self pity and doubt. “Say I start thinking about Chichi and Gohan,” he proposed, “and I think about how much I miss them, but then I think about how glad I am that they aren’t here. I like to think that they’re somewhere better, but then this little voice in the back of my head says maybe they aren’t. And I start to wonder, and then I start to panic.” He paused, and Piccolo tried to think of something comforting to say. There was enough of Kami in him to think that he should try, but too much of the Demon King in him to actually come up with something. “Gohan is just a kid, you know? And Chichi...” Goku breathed her name, savouring the memories it evoked, “She was awful pretty.”

                “I met your wife once, if you recall.” Piccolo said, quietly, “And it seemed to me that she was capable of handling her own.”

                “That was before.” Goku sighed, regretting the path his wife had chosen for herself. “After Gohan was born, she...she changed.” He tilted his head, rubbing his hair through the dirt, to look at Piccolo. “I wondered sometimes if maybe she regretted marrying me. It was plain that I wasn’t always her idea of a good husband.” He blushed and looked away from the Namek’s hard gaze. “But I really loved her, you know? I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I really loved her. Love her.” He corrected himself.

                Piccolo grunted, uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. He did not understand the human idea of romantic love, though thanks to Kami he at least understood familial love and friendship. Goku flashed him an apologetic grin; he knew the subject was foreign to the asexual Namek in the cage next to his, but it really did help to let out his thoughts sometimes. He found himself grateful that they were together, at least. Once enemies, he now felt a strange bond of companionship with the green man, which he knew was shared.

                “They’re out there somewhere, Goku.” Piccolo said, patiently. “You’ll find them.”

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                Radditz really knows how to romance a guy. Be like Radditz! Show some love, and leave a review! Even if it’s tough love, I won’t mind!

                Also, if you would like to be added to the updates mailing list (a relic from the old days that I was pleased to find had not been deleted from topica), please let me know, either by dropping me an email or leaving a review with your email address. I’ll send you an invite. :D

 


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with. If I did, Toei would be calling off their dogs. Kill the fandom and you kill the show.

Author’s Notes: Thanks for the patience, everyone. We’re back in action.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Chichi had never been so happy to see Bulma in her life. It had been a little over a week since her encounter with Sixteen in the changing rooms, and she desperately needed a friend to talk to about her conflicting thoughts and emotions. As a result of that excitement, it was very disappointing and very difficult for Chichi to deal with, when Bulma locked herself away almost immediately after arriving to work on the Ki-restricting circlet that she had been ignoring as of late.

                Krillin, too, seemed to be avoiding her. The only time she could get him to look at her was when they were sparring, and even then, it seemed his hits were half-assed and his blocks weak. She’d taken her frustration out on him extra hard as a result, and felt a little guilty because of it. Two broken ribs and a concussion had put him in the regeneration tank for a little while.

                She tried not to feel too guilty. Krillin was being a jerk, after all, but he’d looked so miserable as the cold jelly filled up the tank around him that she couldn’t help feeling a bit bad. She’d quickly retreated from the medical bay after getting him settled though, unwilling to risk an encounter with Sixteen, whom she had been avoiding.

                She cursed, for the thousandth time in a week, her stupidity in leading him into the change room with her in the first place. The one time in her life she’d allowed herself to be impulsive had let to nothing but regret and embarrassment. It really wasn’t fair! Bulma was impulsive all the time, and Chichi was pretty willing to bet that the other woman had never been in a situation like the one she’d dumped herself into last week. Thinking of Bulma, Chichi again cursed both her own stupid actions, and the other woman’s avoidance of anything not related to her little project.

*

*

                Bulma was miserable too, though Chichi was unaware of the fact. She’d been putting off the dreadful task of searching out the mole, fearing that she would find out something about one of her friends that she really wasn’t prepared to know. As a result, she’d made some excellent progress with both the ki-restricting circlet and the ki-imitating gun. She even had a weak mock-up prototype of the circlet built, though she hadn’t tried it out yet, for lack of wanting to inflict it on one of her friends. The head-screws, designed to both hold the thing in place and tap into the brain, were nasty-looking pieces of work, reminiscent of an old torture device. She’d spent a good deal of time trying to figure out a way around them that would still leave the circlet secure on the head, but she was having little luck.

                In the end, it was frustration with her lack of ideas as much as the guilt of not doing anything to root out the traitor that had spurred her on in the distasteful task of snooping on everyone she loved and cared about.

                Reluctantly, she pulled a chair up to her computer and began the uncomfortable process of spying on everyone’s online activity. From Chichi’s self-help to Roshi’s porn-sites, and her mother’s drivel in between, she would soon be the unfortunate bearer of the knowledge of everything everyone did online. On another screen, she pulled up the incoming and outgoing message logs for each private account – something she had told them would never be done. Truthfully, it never had been done, and she’d never intended to go snooping through anyone else’s inbox, if not for damn Vengeance and his disturbing news.

                Bulma really wished she wasn’t the one who had to do it, but Krillin didn’t have the know-how to get behind any of her firewalls and disguise tactics, and she really didn’t want to breed mistrust and suspicion among everyone else by letting them know that one of them was very likely a traitor. She also didn’t want to let the traitor know that she was on to him, or her, she amended, though she considered it unlikely that her mother or Chichi could be the culprit. That was the problem, though, with this whole business! Everyone was unlikely to be the culprit; even Dr. Gero, who she really didn’t know very well, and who creeped the hell out of her, didn’t seem the type.

                Cringing, she set her computer to scan through all of the incoming and outgoing messages, directing it first to flag any with unusual destination or origin codes. If that didn’t turn up anything, she’d have to set it to search content for suspicious words. And of course, there was always the possibility that the perpetrator was using code words, so she’d resigned herself to the chance that she might have to go through everything in the logs and read it all herself. With a sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes, dreading the moment the computer finished processing.

*

*

                “We have received a transmission from Ginyu, sire.” Zarbon said, walking into the throne room of Frieza’s mothership, a printed page in hand. He bowed respectfully, before offering the paper to his master.

                “You tell me what it says.” Frieza waved the proffered paper away with a limp hand, not even deigning to look upon his so-called favourite subject. He stared out, instead, at the stars, frowning upon his empire, always unsatisfied.

                “He apologizes, firstly, for not being able to speak to you directly, my lord,” Zarbon scanned the sheet, “but he fears detection by the ones he has infiltrated. Apparently some among them are quite perceptive and he thought it would be best not to arouse suspicion.”

                “Clever, clever,” muttered Frieza, absently swirling the wine in his glass. His words were complimentary, but his tone was not. Zarbon flinched at the sound, knowing it was just a hint of the fury that lay beneath his master’s calm facade. He tried to control the nervous stiffening in his limbs as he continued to scan the page for relevant details. He’d seen Frieza at his worst and had survived; there was no indication that the Ice-jin would turn on him now. Still though, he’d have been a fool to be complacent when such rage simmered in his master’s eyes.

                “He is integrating well, but regrets that he could not properly study his host before inhabiting the body; he reports that he is unwilling to pry until he can be certain that doing so will not arouse suspicion.” Zarbon’s breath hung in the air between them, though he did not shiver. He was used to the chill that was maintained for Frieza’s comfort.

                “So in fewer words, he has nothing to report to me.” The petite tyrant ground out, colder than the air that surrounded them. Wisely, Zarbon remained silent. He knew better than to make excuses for his comrades, even only to placate the emperor. “Where is Vegeta?”

                “I am not sure of his exact location at this moment, sire. I believe he is still in the vicinity of Chisal with his squad.”

                Frieza curled his lip back in displeasure. “He has yet to report to me the results of that blockade, which leads me to believe his efforts in capturing Vengeance were yet again unsuccessful.”

                “Shall I contact him?” Zarbon offered, stepping toward the massive communications console built into the wall. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, awaiting a reply. Frieza stared, lost in thought.

                “You have such delicate hands, pet.” He crooned, and Zarbon swallowed, fearful of the sudden change of mood. “No, I will contact the monkey slave another day. Come here, will you, and taste my wine.” He held out his glass to the obedient Zarbon, who raised it to his lips and sipped, all the while aware of the lizard’s eyes on him.

                “Excellent quality, sire.” Zarbon handed the glass back to Frieza, their fingers brushing coyly together by no fault of Zarbon’s. The lizard king tipped the cup, allowing the remaining wine to slide between his black lips.

                “Yes,” he put the glass down, cocked his head and smiled at Zarbon, thin lips parting to reveal sharp teeth, “excellent.”

*

                Zarbon shivered, cold hatred running through his body as he lathered the soap up yet again. He had to get clean. Didn’t know if he’d ever be clean again. The smell of that filthy lizard was rank on his skin, burning his nostrils and making his eyes water. He grabbed his brush and began to scrub, viciously grating on his already peeling hide. He had to get the stink off.

                Methodically, he bent and began at his toes, scraping and scouring up his legs and around his hips and buttocks. The bristles hurt between his legs, like fire on his penis and scrotum, but he had to get clean. Had to get the smell off. Rubbed up his belly and chest, over and down aching arms, using the long handle to scour his back, hot water scalding skin made sensitive from his rough treatment. Had to shed the skin; it was the only way to get the smell out.

                Zarbon shook, his body unwilling to continue in this vein of punishment, but he forced his hands to move, to keep scrubbing. He’d done this before. He’d survive. Maybe this time it would be a little harder, take a little longer to piece himself back together, but he would survive.

                Frieza had been cruel to him. He’d not been physically vicious because that was too easy. He’d been taunting and malicious, a child bent on smashing a favourite toy. Zarbon hadn’t broken. He didn’t think so, at least. Not even when he’d been used to the point of breaking, teased beyond his sanity, not even when he’d been made to beg on hands and knees for release. He’d begged, even as shame pooled in his belly, he’d begged as he’d known he would. He always did.

                He didn’t think he’d broken. Not this time. He still felt the hatred, curled around his intestines, squeezing the life out of him, and he was comforted by it. The day the dark weight no longer rested in his abdomen, he would know that he had been broken. That would be the day that he’d gladly slit his own throat. Until then, he had to live.

*

*

                Dende did his best to ignore Nail’s stare as he walked into their leader’s hut. The older Namek’s gaze was making him uncomfortable, though Dende could not say why. Nail seemed angry, though he had not acted especially mean or snappish to anyone. In fact, nothing in his behaviour gave away the slow burn of irritation that Dende could feel emanating from the older man.

                “Something troubles you, Dende,” Guru spoke slowly, as the child shut the door, body tensing at his words. Dende turned, prepared to say he was alright, but in the presence of the old sage, he knew better than to lie so blatantly. Of course the old one knew that something was amiss.

                “Yes, Guru.” Dende bowed and offered a gourd of water, as was the custom between master and pupil. He waited patiently for his teacher to finish drinking before he continued. “I sense a new anger about Nail. His actions do not speak of it, but I can feel it when he is near.”

                “Ahh, so you have picked up on it as well, child? Very good; you are learning quickly, far more so than I did at your age.” Dende smiled, pleased to be praised by the Elder, but still troubled. “I would not worry, young son. Your Brother is under much pressure.”

                “Does this have anything to do with the blockade?”

                Guru laughed, a hearty sound that turned into a wracking cough. Dende hurried to re-fill his master’s cup. “Thank you,” the old man said, once he’d taken a drink to calm his body, “and yes. You do pick up on so much more than I expect you do, Dende.” He paused, looking sadly at the child, before continuing. “Our dear friend Vengeance has informed us that there is a leak in our network. He suspects someone affiliated with Blue.”

                “No, not them!” Dende protested, remembering the kind auras of the three visitors who’d helped them so. “They could not be.” He stated, and Guru nodded in agreement.

                “No, it cannot be one of those three. Perhaps someone they know on their end, though. Humans do not share the gifts that you and I were born with, indeed nor do most Nameks.” Guru smiled down at the worried little boy, and placed a massive hand atop his head. “Do not trouble yourself with this. You must leave it to Brothers who understand these matters. All will be well.”

                Dende nodded, though the uneasy feeling plaguing his mind did not abate. He was not typically involved in Guru’s more clandestine activities, though he knew of them and sometimes acted under cover as a greeter to those who came to visit the Elder. He understood what dangerous business they were conducting, going against Frieza, and he knew its importance to the people of the universe who were enslaved by the tyrant.

                A niggling spark in the back of his mind told him that Nail had been irritable before the blockade incident occurred, but logic told him that was no surprise. Their group had been under pressure for a long time now, and to be truthful, it was more surprising that Nail had made it this long without cracking. And he hadn’t really cracked, of course, Dende told himself. He was just cranky and under pressure. That made sense. There was probably something that Dende didn’t know; some bit of terrifying information they weren’t telling him. They did that alot, the older Nameks. They purposely left him out, thinking to shield him, when really, they served only to make him more nervous.

                Reluctantly, he put the issue out of his mind as Guru began the lesson.

*

*

                “Look, Bulma,” Chichi burst through the door, startling her blue-haired friend, “I know you’re busy and all, but I need to talk to you, and I need to do it NOW.” She threw herself into the chair beside Bulma’s, folded her arms under her breasts, and glared unapologetically at her friend.

                “Sure, Chi.” Bulma said, quickly closing the window she’d been working in. No need for Chichi to know she was scrolling through the list of flagged numbers at that very moment. “Err,” she started, uncomfortably, “what about?”

                “I did a bad thing, Bulma,” Chichi sobbed, theatrically dropping her face into her hands. “An unforgiveable thing!” Bulma blanched, her heart racing. This couldn’t be. Not Chichi. Not her dear friend, who’d been through so much at the hands of that monster! What on Earth would possess her to turn on them...unless...

                “They have Goku, don’t they?” Bulma asked, pulling Chichi’s hands gently away from her tear streaked face.

                “Wh...what? Who? Goku?” Chichi blubbered through sniffles, and Bulma, even through the icy dread that had squeezed her heart, was still surprised at the woman’s capacity for mood swings in the extreme.

                “Err...nothing.” Bulma stuttered, seeing the confused look on her friend’s face. She prayed she’d gotten it wrong. “I didn’t say anything about Goku. I said...um...anyway,” she exercised her awesome skills of subject-changing, “what’s the matter?”

                Chichi looked around the room, as though to verify that they were truly alone, before she began her shameful tale. “You know...ah...you know what you told me a few weeks ago...about Sixteen?”

                “How he’s totally got it for you?” Bulma cocked her head and squinted her eyes at the other woman, wondering where this was going. “Chichi,” she said slowly, “Chichi what happened?”

                “I...um...kind of...” she stuttered, then took a deep breath and spilled her guts. “Iseducedhimandalmostsleptwithhim.” She looked up at Bulma, who’s eyebrows were drawn down, patently trying to figure out what had just been said. Chichi closed her eyes, let out a noisy exhalation through her nostrils and then said, more slowly, “I seduced him and almost slept with him.”

                “Wh...what?” Bulma goggled at her friend, eyes wide with shock and mouth slack. Promptly, she shut her lips, but they didn’t seem to want to stay that way, and continued to work soundlessly for a moment more, before she regained her wits. “Why?”

                “Oh, Kami, Bulma!” Chichi wailed, once again covering her flaming cheeks with cooler palms. “You have no idea what it’s like! I’ve been so lonely, and even when he was alive, Goku never looked at me the way that Sixteen does!”

                “But Chichi, do you even have feelings for him?” Bulma was absolutely shocked. She’d never expected something of this magnitude from her straight-laced friend. Even the idea that she’d double-crossed them seemed more plausible than this bombshell!

                Slowly, Chichi brought her hands away from her face and looked Bulma calmly in the eyes. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?” She asked plainly, and then, without waiting for an answer, “It’s been over three years, Bulma. Since Goku. And we...well, he and I...it wasn’t like it was right before the Earth blew up,” she said, embarrassed to be admitting that their sex-life had hit a slow patch. “Not for lack of trying on his part.”

                Bulma snorted, a surprised little laugh, and pulled a face. “Ew,” she said, “don’t tell me that, okay? Goku’s like my brother.” She paused, “A hot brother who I’m not actually related to, but still.”

                “I don’t know what to do, Bulma,” Chichi sighed. “I’ve kind of made a mess here.”

                “Well wait, hold up. You said ‘almost’, right? That means you didn’t actually sleep with him. So what happened?”

                “Oh Kami.” Chichi looked skyward, focusing on the pattern of spots in one of the ceiling panels in an effort to compose herself. “Okay, promise me you won’t laugh.”

                “Promise.”

                “And promise me you won’t say anything till I’m done. I think I’d die of shame.”

                “Deal.”

                “Okay, here goes.” She straightened her neck so that she was once again face to face with Bulma. “I caught him watching me again while sparring with Tien one day. He did that ‘checking for injuries’ thing he does, and I...well, I got it in my head that I was going to have sex, and that was that. I pulled him into the change room, pushed him on the bench, pulled off my shirt and climbed on top of him!” She fisted her hands in her lap, wondering if her cheeks would cool down back to normal temperature ever again.

                “Whoa!” Bulma gasped, and Chichi glared. “Right, not saying anything.”

                “So anyway, I’m kissing him and I go to put my hand down his pants and,” she stopped completely, unsure if she should say anything further.

                “Speak.” Bulma demanded. “How am I supposed to help you if you clam up?”

                “So I put my hand down his pants,” Chichi said, resignedly, “and there was nothing.”

                “What,” Bulma asked, startled, “you mean like he was totally soft down there? Like after all that staring, and you hand yourself to him on a platter, and he can’t get it up?”

                “No, Bulma,” Chichi ground out, unable to meet her friend’s eyes. “There was _nothing_. He has _no penis._ ” She hissed, her red face turned away from Bulma’s bulging eyes and slack mouth.

                “Well,” Bulma snorted, trying to stifle her laughter and failing miserably. “He’s got enormous hands.” She burst into a fit of giggles, while Chichi stared on, horrified. “And you know, they never do as good a job with their cocks as they can with their mouth and hands.” She wiped away tears as Chichi’s fury grew.

                “Bulma!”

                “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. “Oh my God, okay. Okay. What did you do?”

                “What could I do?” Chichi moaned, “I bolted! I didn’t even say anything! I just high-tailed it out of there, and gave your dad an eye-full as I ran through the kitchen to my room! And I am not proud to admit that I’ve been avoiding him ever since.”

                “Well,” Bulma paused, still stuck on the ‘no penis’ part, “that...that’s awkward.” She was curious herself now too. Did he look like a Ken doll down there?

                “You’re telling me.” Chichi moaned, “I feel absolutely awful. How was I to know that Gero hadn’t made him anatomically correct?”

                “Well, between you and me, Chi, I can’t really imagine that old kook spending his days bent over a slab, designing the perfect mechanical dick.” Bulma giggled again, and immediately apologized, but this time she didn’t really have to, because of the snort that escaped Chichi as well.

                “That poor man probably has no idea what I was even about, dragging him in there and tossing myself at him.” She laughed, self-consciously. “I didn’t even think about that, to be honest. I mean, he’s so human in so many ways, I guess I just...”

                “Got horny?” Bulma supplied, when her friend trailed off. She got whacked in the arm for her helpful efforts.

                “You try going without for three years, and see how you do, Bulma Briefs! I know what you’re like!” Chichi accused, playfully, and Bulma’s face went red. “Oh my God, Bulma! There’s already someone, isn’t there?”

                “What, no!” Bulma shrieked, defensively raising her hands before her body and shaking her head. “No, absolutely not.” She said, firmly. Just because she’d been dreaming about three-ways with Vengeance and Vegeta didn’t mean she was actually considering getting involved with either of those psychos. Vegeta was just candy to look at, and Ven had a voice to crack even the steeliest chastity belt, that was all. For all she knew, he was a seven eyed, pustule covered, snot faced monster...even though he sounded hotter than Hell. Of course she wasn’t seriously attracted to either of them. No sir. Not Bulma Briefs, who had the worst bad boy complex there ever was. “Hey, what do you mean _already_?” She demanded.

                “Well, you know.” It was Chichi’s turn to go red. “It wasn’t that long ago that you and Yamcha...” she trailed off as some of the colour drained from Bulma’s face. “Look,” she stumbled, “I’m not trying to insinuate anything here, or say anything about what you had with Yamcha.” She paused again, gathering her thoughts. “I’m sorry Bulma, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

                “You’re right, though,” Bulma said, softly. “It would be quick, wouldn’t it? Does that make me heartless, that I could think about having another relationship with someone so soon?” She looked imploringly at her friend, the same woman who’d spent weeks in bed following the loss of her husband, and who had yet to truly move on.

                “At first,” Chichi said slowly, picking her words carefully, “I was shocked. You seemed to grieve him so little. I thought that you should be like me, a mess, unstable and unable to face the world without him in it.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked away. “But you’re so much stronger than I am, I think. Even though you might be physically weaker, I have this feeling like if the world came crashing down around your ears, you’d still be looking forward, finding hope for yourself and those lucky enough to be around you. You’d be figuring out a way to make sure tragedy didn’t strike again.” She reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand, and said, “If it was you who cut and run on a dickless android, you’d probably have mended the whole awkward situation by now, and would never have had to spend a week ducking into corners whenever you thought you heard him coming.”

                “I could make him one, you know.” Bulma said, laughing, and Chichi shook her head.

                “No thanks,” she smiled, “I think maybe I should leave the seductress act to you. Truth is, I feel guilty for more than just embarrassing Sixteen. I still feel as though I’ve betrayed Goku, to be honest. Things weren’t always wonderful between us, but I think it will be a long time yet, before I’m ready to move on.”

                “You’re not weak, Chichi.” Bulma said, returning the smile. “You’re loyal in a way that I could never be.”

                “Never say never. You just haven’t met the right man yet. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but you and Yamcha were so on and off, I really think you were happier during your breaks than you ever were when you two were dating.” The dark haired woman stood, brushing the wrinkles from her dress and wiping the tear stains from her face. “Now, enough of this dwelling on things. I think I have an apology to make.” She leaned down and hugged the other woman, glad that she had come to know her husband’s best friend so well. She’d been jealous, once upon a time, of their friendship, but since she’d come to know the other woman as more than an acquaintance, she’d realized why her husband had spoken of Bulma so fondly.

                “Get on with it!” Bulma laughed. “Word to the wise though, he can’t get drunk either, so don’t try to soften him up with booze.”

                “No sex and no booze?” Chichi grinned, “Gero’s not creating androids. He’s creating living, breathing residents of hell!” Bulma barked with surprised laughter, not expecting such an observation from prim, straight laced Chichi. Before she could reply though, her friend had whooshed from the room, quick on her feet with a new sense of purpose. She shook her head, still smiling, and reluctantly turned back to her computer.

                Immediately, her face went white, and she felt ill. Flagged in red were several transmissions heading straight into the heart of Frieza’s forces. Several replies from the Saiyan contact had also been highlighted on the other side of the screen.

                “Puar,” she whispered in shock, “Oh Puar, how could you?”

*

*

                Vegeta was definitely pissed off, Gohan thought as he flew face first into the dirt. He hadn’t been privy to the conversation, but all three Saiyans had listened through their prince’s closed door as Frieza ripped a strip off him, furious that Vegeta had made no headway on the Vengeance issue. Their stoic leader had remained virtually mute while the lizard Emperor screamed and shrieked his fury in the type of tantrum only the Saiyan Prince could inspire.

                His responses too quiet for them to hear through the door, all his subjects could do was imagine the stony look on his face, muscles bunched with tension as his tail lashed, desperately wishing to unleash the rage that was building inside his compact body, as the com link displayed Frieza’s furious visage and assaulted sensitive Saiyan ears with the emperor’s high, nasal screeching.

                They’d all jumped back respectfully as the door slid open and Vegeta stalked out, but he’d said nothing and gave no indication that he knew they’d been eavesdropping, though he was certainly aware of it. The three warriors had followed meekly as Vegeta led them to the base docking station, wordlessly climbing into his pod with the knowledge that the others would follow. He’d overridden their directional systems, programming the same set of coordinates into all three pods, and that was how they’d come to find themselves on the barren, rocky planet, having their asses handed to them by a prince gone berserk.

                They’d known the drill, of course. It was not the first time Vegeta had taken all three of them on in a fit of fury, desperately lashing out in a fit to control the depth of his rage after having a particularly nasty confrontation with Frieza. They would go at him, and he at them, and everyone would end up bloody and broken, but calmer, safely ensconced in their space pods and on the way to the nearest base to be patched up.

                Gohan got the feeling, as Vegeta’s foot slammed into his kidney, driving him further into the ground, that today was going to be different.

                “Fight me, you fucking pansies!” Vegeta snarled, dodging Radditz, who flew past, fist outstretched, quickly whirling in the air to correct himself. Nappa, using Radditz as a distraction, managed to land a kick to Vegeta’s back, momentarily throwing the diminutive prince off balance. He stumbled two steps forward before righting himself and turning to blast Nappa in the chest, sending the largest warrior flying. Gohan, by this point, had hauled himself up out of the crater he’d created upon impact. Quickly, he charged up and released a burst of power, but Vegeta countered with a blast of his own. Radditz joined Gohan, the two of them combining their energies into a powerful beam, exerting all their energies in the effort to beat Vegeta’s back.

                The prince laughed, widened his stance, and poured another portion of what felt like boundless strength into his blast. Gohan and Radditz grit their teeth, muscles feeling it as they forced more energy into their arms and out of their hands. Nappa, not easily put off by a mere blast, was soon beside his comrades, adding his ki to theirs, and the three crowed in their victory, as their energies finally managed to push Vegeta’s back. The prince was tiring, they could tell, by the way he allowed himself to be forced up and away into the sky by their blast.

                Vegeta snarled as he felt the wave of energy engulf him, pulling him bodily off his feet and up into the air. Struggling to gain control, he pushed his arms out in front of his body, right against the surface of the massive ball of energy that was threatening to take him up and out to space. He screamed as the skin on his hands started to sizzle, his body hair standing on end with the crackle of energy. He regretted putting so much into that blast as he pushed vainly against the combined efforts of his subjects. He would definitely need the regeneration tanks after this one. May as well get all that he could out of it, he thought, as he concentrated on pooling the energy in his core. It would leave him exhausted and he’d probably break a few bones when he hit the ground, but he’d done worse to himself and come out alive.

                From the ground, Nappa, Radditz and Gohan watched the ball of energy and man flicker, saw their scouter readings whir so quickly upward that the numbers could not be read. Gohan shivered, the feeling of apprehension returning to him as he watched the Saiyan prince, glowing with desperate energy, high up in the sky like a star. Nappa and Radditz beside him grinned like madmen when they heard the familiar roar of power, their faces quickly falling when the sky began to darken. The ground beneath their feet shook, and a bolt of lightning crackled through the air.

                “It’s coming from him.” Gohan whispered in awe as another bolt snaked outward, illuminating their world.

                Vegeta, screaming his power up above, felt the jolt of power, felt a sort of terrified awe as  clouds began to form, the very sky crackling with his energy. Something was not right. He’d done something different, pulled this power from a different place in himself, felt the tugging, pushing, pulling, desperate clawing of it to rip its way up and out of his very being. He screamed as another bolt  of electricity shot out from him, raised his hands to clutch at his pounding head. So much power! Strength like he’d never felt before crawled through his veins, feeding as though starved on his rage, his anger, the black dark place inside his belly. He felt the burn and sizzle in his flesh, revelled in the excruciating pain of it, and pulled more power up from the black hole inside. His muscles ached, his skin crackled, his eyes burned with something he’d only dreamed of. Even his hair hurt as he felt the energy funnel into his body, released from its prison.

                And then, as suddenly as the dam had burst, the energy was gone, pulled back inside him with such force he felt as though his insides had been stepped on. The final jolt knocked the wind out of him, sent him spiralling down to the ground, sputtering and choking for air as his body refused to obey  his commands. He saw the ground coming, saw three black dots racing toward him, too slow to stop the fall, the crack and crunch of bone as he hit the ground, hard. His mind screamed as his mouth could not, too busy spluttering up blood as it was.

                When they reached him, they wasted no time in calling their pods, knowing even without their broken scouters how badly their prince was damaged.  They felt the lack of his energy deep in their bones, a terrifying sensation that none of them had ever felt before, though Gohan knew that his father had been able to sense ki in this way.

                “Radditz,” Nappa barked, gently picking up the battered prince, as though he were no more than a small child, “Get on the computer in your pod and find us the nearest place with regeneration tanks!” Gohan stared helplessly as the oldest Saiyan settled the prince in his pod, quickly hooking up the emergency breathing mask in the hopes that it would help Vegeta breath through all the blood.

                “The nearest base is over two weeks away.” Radditz sounded panicked as he scanned through the list. “There are closer tanks, but...” he trailed off, the implication hanging in the air. Could they trust the locals not to kill the weakened Saiyan prince upon landing?

                “Red...” Vegeta rasped, through his mask. With effort, he reached up, managing to claw it away from his face. “Station.”

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                Thanks for reading, folks! Please consider leaving a review! I’d love to know what you thought.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with. If I did, Puar’s gender would have been made more concrete.

Author’s Notes: Thanks for all the kind reviews. I’m very glad that you guys are enjoying this so far, and I’m pleased to report that some stuff happens this chapter!

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PRESENT DAY

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                “Puar, I need to talk to you.” Bulma’s voice startled the little cat, who’d been napping on the back of the couch.

                “What’s up, Bulma?” He asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he floated toward her.

                “In my lab please, if you don’t mind.” She said quietly, stunning him. He blinked, confused by her subdued attitude, but followed when she turned and walked away. He wondered what she possibly had to say to him, that she refused to speak in the presence of the others. It was only Krillin and Tien, after all. He trailed her into the lab, not too surprised when she asked him to close the door behind him. He did, and the silence after it swooshed shut was palpable. She stood, frowning over at him, a sad, almost disappointed look on her face.

                “What’s going on?” He broke the silence, unable to bear her scrutiny any longer.

                “We have a leak.” Bulma said, her eagle eyes watching Puar’s surprised reaction. “Frieza somehow knew that Vengeance was going to be on Chisal; that’s why he sent the Saiyans there.”

                “Wha...who is it?” Puar was shocked, and his little mind raced with the effort of trying to guess who it might have been.

                “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” Bulma said, turning toward her computer and bringing up a hidden window. “I hate to do this Puar, but you really haven’t given me much of a choice.” She motioned him over, and he was shocked to see that she’d pulled up a message history; _his_ message history. “I need you to tell me why, Puar.”

                “Y...you think it was _me?_ ” He asked, shocked.

                “There are several transactions listed here, taking place between you and a code belonging to one of the Saiyans under Frieza’s control. If you tell me that you had nothing to do with it, I’ll believe you.” She said, almost pleading, as though she truly wished he were innocent. He wished he were.

                “Have you read them, Bulma?” He asked after a moment, his cheeks hot beneath peachy fur.

                “N...no.” She admitted, looking away. “I wanted to give you a chance to explain yourself first.”

                “Read them,” Puar said, floating down to click on the first message that Radditz had sent him, then moving back to let her see, “and then I’ll explain. If I try to explain first, I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”

                Bulma sat down, fixed her eyes on the screen, and promptly did a double take. “Umm...okay, I think I’ve seen enough.” She sputtered, embarrassed.

“No, read them all. If you don’t, you’ll never know that this one isn’t a cover.” As much as he didn’t want to, Puar clicked on the next message for her and she read, her cheeks growing hotter and hotter with each successive note.

                “Well?” He squeaked, when she had finished the last note, a particularly erotic description of the things that Puar wanted to do with Radditz’s tail.

                “Umm, that’s kind of hot?” Bulma squeaked, so relieved that she’d been wrong about her friend, but at the same time shocked for the second time that day by one of her more conservative friends’ racy sex lives. “Look Puar, I,” she began, closing her eyes for a moment and touching fingertips to a throbbing head. “I’m so sorry I suspected you.”

                “What else could you do, under the circumstances?” The cat asked, settling down on the desk after closing the last of the embarrassing messages. “I admit that I would have been suspicious too.” Bulma reached out and scratched him behind the ear, a wry smile on her face.

                “Thanks Puar. You’re a good friend.” She said, before sitting back in awkward silence. They both eyed each other up.

                “I...um...I imagine you’re wondering...”

                “Oh Kami, yes!” Bulma burst out. “I didn’t want to ask...well, I did, but I didn’t think I should.”

                “Give me your blazer a minute.” Puar said, and Bulma shrugged out of her jacket. “You remember that night on Chisal? When I went out to get some air? Well, I actually went out to a bar.” Puar settled it over his body, closed his eyes, and a moment later, a very handsome naked man was sitting on Bulma’s computer desk, wearing nothing but her blazer, conveniently draped over  his lap. “Looking like this.” He blushed and looked away as Bulma ogled him with wide, surprised eyes. “Clothed, of course. I met Radditz there and we...ah...hit it off.” He finished.

                “I’m...shocked.” Bulma said, slowly, and Puar felt shame pooling in his belly. She probably thought he was awful for sleeping with Radditz. He was certain that she was disgusted at how he’d given it up to a complete stranger, and a genocidal Saiyan, at that. She cocked her head and studied him, and he felt her eyes raking over his body, imagining the nasty thoughts she must have been thinking about him. She opened her mouth and he cringed, shrinking into himself, not quite sure he could hold it together if she vocalized any of those thoughts. “I had no idea you were gay.” She said, reaching out to touch his hand. “And I’ve got a pretty good gaydar.”

                “You’re not mad?” Puar asked, daring to open his eyes and look at her.

                “What? Why would I be mad? I’ve just found out that one of my best friends is definitely not the traitor.” She leaned over and hugged him, ignoring the fact that he was stark naked. “Puar, I’m overjoyed!” She stepped back, smiling, and eyed him up and down. “You know, you’re pretty cute.”

                “I copied Yamcha’s general build,” he squirmed under her coat, “and your features. It works better if I model my shapes after something, rather than just coming up with them out of thin air.”

                “Plus, who wouldn’t want to look like me?” Bulma preened, patting her hair. “Seriously though Puar, you shouldn’t be afraid of letting everyone know.”

                “I...Radditz was supposed to be a onetime thing. I never meant it to turn into...well, whatever it’s turned into.”

                “I didn’t mean Radditz, silly,” Bulma laughed. “I meant letting everyone know you’re gay. I think Radditz will come as less of a shock if the others realize you’re into dudes first.”

                “I don’t exactly intend to make this thing with Radditz a big deal.” Puar blushed before popping back into cat form. “He doesn’t know about this part of me. The real one. He thinks I’m some sexy young humanoid and I have a bad feeling that he would be pissed if he found out he’s been fucking a cat.”

                “I don’t think you can say he fucked a cat, if you weren’t a cat when you guys did it.” Bulma said, though she looked like she was working through the ethics in her head. Could this really be called bestiality? She didn’t think so. “But you’re right; he might be mad that you’re not what you presented yourself as.”

                “It doesn’t really matter, Bulma. I’ll probably never see him again anyway. I can hold this form for a pretty long time, though. I thought about...well, maybe wearing it more often. Like, around Red Station and all.” He looked to her, as though her approval was the permission he needed.

                “Do I look like I’d object to having another sexy man walking around?” Bulma grinned, and pulled the cat into a bear hug. “Now that that’s settled, I do have a request of you though,” She said, getting serious. “I really need you to keep quiet on this traitor issue. Aside from us, Krillin is the only one who knows, and only because he overheard me talking to Vengeance. I don’t want to create chaos by letting everyone know that one of the people on this ship is in Frieza’s pocket. It would be madness.”

                “Of course. My lips are sealed.” Puar squeaked, floating free of her loving death grip and trying his best to smooth down the fur she’d ruffled.

*

*

                Gohan shifted in the cramped pod, trying not to infringe too much upon Vegeta’s space. The last time he’d been in a pod with someone else, he’d been about six, sitting on Radditz’s lap, and scared out of his mind after being found and “adopted” by his uncle and the other two adult Saiyans.

                Now he was eight, and the idea of sitting on Prince Vegeta’s lap was not one to be entertained by anyone, even when the prince was healthy. At the moment, he was barely conscious and bleeding profusely.

                “Boy,” Nappa’s voice came over the intercom, “how is the Prince.”

                Gohan reached over Vegeta’s prone body, not missing the way that the Prince’s hazy eyes followed his hand, and hit the intercom button. “He’s okay. Still conscious...sort of.” Vegeta snarled at that, but Gohan ignored him. If he and Radditz had had their way, Vegeta would be out cold, slumbering blissfully under the effects of anaesthetic gasses, but Nappa had been adamant that they not put the Prince under. He hadn’t told them why, and Gohan had been too stressed out to ask.

                “Do either of you know where we’re going?” Radditz’s voice chimed in.

                “Red Station.” Nappa answered.

                “Duh, baldy, I heard him too.” Radditz snapped, uncaring for the moment that he was being rude to his superior officer. “But I meant _where_ the hell is Red Station?” They could hear him tapping frustratedly at his on board computer, likely trying to pin down the coordinates of their mystery destination. Vegeta, on the brink of death, had made some odd demands before allowing himself to be enclosed in his pod.

                First, he’d insisted that the destination coordinates be sent only to the navigation units of the other pods so that no one accessing the on board computer could tell where they were going; not even the inhabitants of those pods. Then he’d made them rip out the tracking hardware in each pod, instructing Gohan to toss the units into his own pod, before programming it to take itself off on a little tour of the surrounding galaxy. Whatever this Red Station was, the prince was taking abnormal care in ensuring that no one would know that they were going there.

                With only three pods, they’d decided it would be best if Gohan climbed in with Vegeta; that way, if there was an emergency, someone would be there to aid the ailing monarch. Vegeta had not been happy, but he’d also been in no condition to prevent his subjects from turning on him, “for his own good.” He’d snarled and grumbled and called Gohan some pretty foul things for the first hour of the trip, before his strength began to dip to frightening levels.

                “Give it up, Radditz. None of us know any better than you do.” Nappa growled irritably. They’d all been too keyed up to even consider putting themselves into the stasis that normally occurred during pod-travel, and the time trapped inside the little balls was beginning to wear on them.

*

*

                “Yo, Earth to Tien,” Krillin waved his hand in front of his friend’s face. Getting no response, he tried a little higher, to see if maybe the third eye was a little more responsive. “TIEN!”

                “Wha...what?” Tien sputtered, jumping in his seat with the shock of Krillin’s shout.

                “It’s your move, man.” Krillin gestured to the checkers board. “What’s the deal? You kind of spaced out after Puar and Bulma left.” He frowned at the board as the other man made yet another sloppy move in a string of the same. He’d never played checkers with Tien before, but he’d thought the other man would have had more of a mind for strategy than he was currently displaying.

                “Ahh, it’s nothing.” Tien said, then, changing his mind, he spoke again. “Well, not really. It seems like everyone has a big secret that I’m not being let in on, and I don’t like it. I’m not some outsider. You’ve all said it enough yourselves, I’m one of you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s like none of you trust me, or something.”

                Krillin was taken aback. They’d all known that Tien was upset at not being included in the most recent mission, but the monk hadn’t quite been prepared to be pounced on in such a manner. “It’s not that we don’t trust you...” he began, tentatively picking up his game piece and making a move. “It’s...well, we don’t know where you stand.” He shrugged, apologetically. “What we’re doing can be dangerous. We don’t know how you’ll hold up to that. When we have something less life threatening, you’re in.” He tried to smile, but faltered in the face of Tien’s answering scowl.

                “Fine.” The three eyed man said, petulantly picking up a piece to make a move. “King me.”

                It was Krillin’s turn to grimace. He hadn’t even seen that one coming.

*

*

                Chichi sat next to Sixteen, neither of them saying a word. Chichi’s face was redder than he was sure was healthy, but the android remained silent about it, not quite understanding the feeling of discomfort that had settled over him. He’d wanted to talk to her for a week now – not about anything in particular, he’d just missed her company – but he’d sensed that something had changed between them so he’d pretended not to notice the way she scurried out of a room whenever he entered, always off with some flimsy excuse or another.

                “Have I made you angry?” He finally broke the silence, the suddenness of his deep voice surprising her. “I have missed you this past week.”

                “Oh, no Sixteen, you didn’t do anything.” Chichi sighed. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

                He cocked his head. “Miss Chichi, I am not hurt. My body is fully intact and I am experiencing no pain.”

                “Ahh...I meant emotionally, not physically.” She muttered, but spoke up when she noticed his puzzled gaze. “Do you not understand that?” She asked, earnestly. “Don’t you feel sad ever?”

                “Sad?”

                “You said you missed me. When you miss someone, it’s because you’re sad that they’re gone.” Chichi reached out and took his hand, looking up at his face as he seemed to process the information.

                “Yes.” He said, finally. “I was sad. Thank you; I can put a name to that now.”

                “Err...you’re welcome, I guess.” Chichi frowned, not sure if she was pleased to be the one to introduce sadness into someone’s life. Rather a terrible accomplishment, she thought.

                “You are sad, because you miss your husband, are you not?” Sixteen asked, and not for the first time, she was disturbed by the keen perception he displayed, for a machine.

                “I...I am.” She said, squeezing his big hand in her own little one. “I miss Goku very much, Sixteen, and I was trying to assuage that by...by...” she blushed. “Do you understand what happened in the change room?”

                “You wanted to perform sex with me.” He said, and she squirmed with discomfort. “But I am lacking in that anatomy. You must forgive me, I never thought to inform you. I only became aware of the importance of the penis when Master Roshi and Oolong told-“

                “Oh Kami, stop right there!” Chichi slapped a hand over his mouth. “If it’s got to do with those two perverts, I don’t want to hear it. And you shouldn’t either.” Then, as an afterthought, “If you have any questions about sex, come ask me and I’ll tell you. Please don’t listen to a word they say.”

                Sixteen thought on that for a moment, before turning to look at her. “So is it true that-“

                Chichi’s scream resounded throughout the whole space station, momentarily deafening everyone but Dr. Briefs, who couldn’t hear very well anyway. Roshi and Oolong had no way of knowing  what kind of conversation was taking place at that moment, but something deep in their bones told them that they were about to be in very big trouble.

*

*

                “Vegeta,” Nappa’s gruff voice came through the com-link. “You there?” The prince grunted in response, and Nappa was relieved. He knew that Vegeta needed sleep, but he was worried about allowing the prince to doze while the boy was not up to watch over him. Gohan had finally fallen asleep after two days of straight nurse-duty, watching over their slumbering monarch. Nappa did not recall ever seeing the prince so damaged – outwardly he appeared stable, but the severity of his internal wounds was frightening, and though they’d done their best to patch him up, Gohan had reported that the blood had begun to seep through their makeshift bandages. Vegeta had also suffered several severe coughing fits, after which he spat copious amounts of bloody mucus, and his breathing sounded wet and laboured. Nappa suspected that the Prince’s lungs were filling, slowly drowning him in his own blood.

                “What do you want, Nappa?” He wheezed out, cringing at the pain it caused him. All he wanted to do was sleep. Why were the damn fools not letting him sleep? The fucking kid was out of it, he didn’t hear them calling _his_ name over again.

                “Are you in pain, my lord?”

                “Oh, fuck off, Nappa.” Vegeta barked as best he could, and Nappa cringed to hear the slurred, tired words.

                “By the Gods, Vegeta, save your strength.” Nappa chided.

                “I would, if you would let me sleep, you overgrown son of a...a...” he struggled to speak as a coughing fit overcame him, wracking his whole body, weak as he was.

                “When the cub awakens.” Nappa insisted, wishing that there were some way that he could have ridden with the prince instead. “Now how long until we arrive.”

                “Quit pestering me, you stupid shit.”

                “I could, your Highness, if only you had allowed me access to the coordinates. Again, will you tell me our ETA?”

                “We’re there when I say we’re there.”

                “Fine Vegeta, if you’re going to be difficult.” Nappa growled, frustration gnawing at his core. He listened carefully, thought he heard the Prince’s breathing even out, and feared that he might slip into a coma if he was allowed to sleep unattended. “Vegeta,” he pestered, trying to keep his charge awake, “are we there yet?”       

*

*

                “Bulma, get out here quick!” It was Oolong, of all people, panting so hard she thought the little piggy might have a heart attack. She quickly shut the window she’d been working in and sprang up to follow the little guy. “It’s...” he breathed out, between gulps of air, “there’s three pods coming in fast. Your dad and Gero think that they’re going to force a landing.”

                “Who are they?”

                “They haven’t said.” Bulma’s father supplied, for they had reached the Station’s docking bay. “But their pods are of Empire origin.”

                “Shit.” Bulma cursed, looking around at the scared faces around her. “SHIT!” She was panicking, quickly losing the battle for calm, focused thought. The mole, it had to be. The fucking traitor had finally sold them all out, it must be that! “How many of them?” She asked, forcefully grabbing the reins of her wildly galloping thoughts.

                “There are only three ships.” It was Chichi who answered. “I’ve been hailing them, but I’m not getting an answer.”

                “Do you think they’re trying to surprise us?”

                “No, they know they’ve been hailed, I’m sure of it. They know that we know they’re coming.”

                “So they’re just assholes.” Bulma spat, bitterly, and tried not to glare at those around her. All her hard work at cloaking their operation, down the drain. She wondered if the soldiers in those pods had orders to execute them all. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” She ran off, sprinting down the hallways as fast as her slippered feet would allow. Back in her lab, fingers blazed across the keypad to her safe, where she kept all of her prototypes. The ki-zapping gun in her hands, she slammed the safe shut and raced back to the dock.

                “Mr. And Mrs. Briefs, Dr. Gero, anyone who doesn’t want to end up in a fight, I want you to get back into more secure areas please,” Krillin was leading the weaker members of their little refuge forcefully back into the living quarters. “Bulma, I’d tell you to get your ass in there, too, but I know you won’t listen.” He smiled wryly at her, before eyeing the gun. “That thing work?” He asked.

                “Truthfully,” she patted the butt of the rifle-like contraption, “I’m not sure. Theoretically, it would knock you on your ass, but I haven’t exactly put it to practice yet.”

                “Well,” he thought for a moment, before continuing to herd the non-fighters through the doorway, “I won’t tell _them_ that.”

                “You want me to stay?” Puar asked, floating over to Bulma. “I could transform into something real big.”

                “No,” she shook her head, motioning for the little cat to go with the others. “Not today Puar. Who knows how long those guys’ll be here, and you can’t hold your form forever. Don’t want to let them in on one of our best secrets, do we?” She tried to grin confidently at the cat, but it came out as a pathetic sort of grimace. He hesitated. “Puar, please, I need to know that they have at least some defence in there, if these guys break through.”

                “Okay.” The cat nodded, once again wishing that changing form to a strong looking creature actually made him strong. Quickly, he latched on to the side  of her shoulder in a quick hug, before floating in with the Briefs, Gero, Oolong and Master Roshi. The door shut and locked behind them, and Bulma gripped her gun with sweaty hands as the others prepared themselves to fight.

                The floor shook with the forceful impact of the three spherical ships, crash crash crash, one right after the other. Slowly, slowly, the airlock began to close around the three visitors while hearts beat hard in the chests of those who waited. The massive doors groaned, hissing as they shut and the automated systems began to equalize the pressure and fill the room with breathable air. Ten minutes later, it was done and the panel separating the nervous residents of Red Station from their erstwhile visitors began to shift aside.

                “Remind me again why we’re letting them in?” Krillin asked nervously, as he crouched into a defensive stance.

                “Because if we try and lock them out, they’ll probably blast their way in.” Chichi answered, gripping her staff.

                “And then we’re all boned.” Bulma chimed in, “because without an airlock, no one can get in or out of here without killing everyone else on board.”

                “Don’t tell me that, Bulma.” Krillin swallowed the lump in his throat. “Now I’m going to have to worry about damaging the station instead of focusing all my energy on these guys.”

                Several meters away, the first pod was cracking open. A small figure hopped out, then turned and reached back inside the pod. Bulma gasped, recognizing that small body with its long, unruly hair. She strode forward, ignoring the cries of her friends, just in time to see Gohan pull the broken, battered body of Vegeta from the pod. The Prince slumped forward, bracing himself on hands and knees as he coughed up yet more blood. That was when Bulma realized that both figures were covered in crusted blood and dirt, though Gohan appeared to be relatively unharmed. The second and third pods opened, and without a second thought, Bulma put her gun to the Prince’s forehead, her hands surprisingly steady as she waited for the other two beasts to climb out.

                “Don’t fucking try anything,” she gestured at their leader with her gun as soon as they surfaced, “or I’ll blow his brains out.”

                “Don’t be a stupid bitch.” Nappa snarled, advancing on her. “Like a gun could do anything to Prince Vegeta.”

                “Oh, you don’t remember me?” She batted her eyes at the biggest Saiyan with a confidence she didn’t feel. “Because I remember you, from the presentation on Ki-reducing weapons.” She let her meaning sink in, and did her best to ignore the death glares the two functional adult Saiyans were sending her. “This baby can do some real damage, and I’m willing to bet that the little prince here is in no condition to fight off a kitten, much less me.”

                “Try anything and she’ll pull the trigger.” Tien said, advancing forward with Krillin and Sixteen. Chichi stood back, dumbstruck at the sight of the smallest Saiyan. She dropped her staff and it clattered to the floor as she raced forward, pushing her way past a startled Sixteen. A smaller man would have been thrown off balance, but he simply stared as he retained his footing.

                “GOHAN!” she shouted, running toward the child. Radditz, seeing the panicked look on the child’s face, stepped in front of his nephew and sent out a blast of energy that knocked the woman clear off her feet.

                “M...mom.” He whispered. “Radditz, stop!”

                “Mom?” Radditz turned, scowling, patently confused. Just as he turned, Chichi shrieked out a warrior cry and launched herself at the big Saiyan, who unfortunately was not above hitting a girl, especially not if it meant defending himself. Chichi bounced off the Saiyan as easily as if she’d just tried to plow through a mountain, and Gohan watched in frozen horror as his uncle grabbed his poor little mother by the neck and hauled her up off her feet.

                “STOP IT!” Bulma screamed, jabbing the immobile prince with the muzzle of her gun. “Put her down, you fucking ape, or I’ll shoot him!” Radditz growled and tightened his grip, unprepared for the small cannonball that plowed into the back of his knees.

                “Gohan? What the fuck?!” He yelped as he went down – unhurt but severely inconvenienced, his grip on the human woman loosing enough to drop her to the ground. She hit the floor with a thump, coughing and gasping for breath as Gohan stood shaking, staring wide eyed at the angry uncle he’d just attacked. Immediately, he dropped into a submissive bow, kneeling on the floor like a dog baring his throat to the alpha male.

                “I’m s...sorry Uncle,” he stuttered, fearful of the consequences of his actions, “but I won’t let you hurt my mother.”

                “Your mother?” Radditz sounded confused, as he eyed the crumpled form of the woman on the floor. “Fuck me, that bitch is your mom?” He laughed at the snarl that came out of Gohan’s mouth. “That little weakling survived a Saiyan birth? Shit, Kakarott must have been weaker than we thought, if she was able to survive him rutting on her!”

                “SHUT UP!” Gohan snarled, but when he looked up, he noticed that his uncle was looking appreciatively at the woman who’d hauled herself up off the ground and was glaring daggers at him. She’d recovered her staff and was looking at him as though she could slice him in half with the blunt wooden pole.

                “Not as weak as I thought, maybe. Wish Vegeta hadn’t broken our scouters, eh kid?” He grinned at Gohan, who relaxed a little bit at this thoroughly Saiyan show of apology.

                “Radditz, you stupid shit!” Nappa shouted, “Are you forgetting that we have a situation here?” He gestured to Bulma, who was still holding her gun to Vegeta’s head. The prince had managed to lift his head and they were glaring at each other, no doubt remembering the night he’d scared her into thinking she was about to be raped.

                “Bastard,” she snarled, pushing the gun against his skin. “Who’s in charge, now? How about I blow your skull apart, and take the kid back myself, hmm?”

                “You gonna rape me first, dollface?” He taunted, leaning into the muzzle and letting it take some of his weight. Her arms began to shake with the effort of holding him up. “I’d extend you the courtesy, at least. Or maybe you’re a post-mortem kind of girl.” He grinned at her disgusted face as blood seeped from the corners of his mouth. He spat a gob of bloody phlegm and it landed next to her foot, still clad in the comfy slippers that she’d been wearing that morning at her computer desk. “I hear rigor mortis can be a real treat.”

                “You’re sick.” She snapped, trying desperately to control the muscles in her arms. “I should just kill you and end the universe’s misery.”

                “Don’t do it, Bulma.” Gohan was beside her. “Please, don’t kill him.” She turned, saw his pleading eyes and felt her resolve soften. Damn the kid! Then she saw the two adults behind him, bloody promise in their eyes, and she turned back to glare at the Saiyan prince.

                “He’s a murderer.” She said, voice harder than concrete.

                “So am I.” Gohan said quietly, looking away from her. “Will you kill me too?”

                “I...” She stuttered. “I’m sure it’s different.”

                “I’m sure it’s not.” He said, ignoring the sob that escaped from his mother’s lips.              

                “This is for the good of the universe.” Bulma said, flicking the safety switch off. Her finger trembled over the trigger.

                “He’s Vengeance.” Gohan said, desperation tainting his voice. Bulma gasped, and Radditz roared, lunging forward. The child seemed prepared for that, for he turned and blocked, narrowly missing having his neck snapped.

                “Kid, I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Radditz snarled, cornering the child. He reached out and grabbed his nephew.

                “Radditz!” Vegeta burst out, and Nappa hopped quickly into action, yanking the child away from his irate uncle. Radditz glared at the biggest Saiyan and spat out some choice words.

                “You can’t be Vengeance. You’ve...you’ve done such...”

                “What better place to hide?” Vegeta grinned his bloody smile at the ground, too weak to support the weight of his own head.

                “You heartless son of a bitch.” Bulma snarled, reaching down to grab a hold of his chin. She yanked his head up forcibly, not caring if she hurt him and leaned down. “Prove it, you bastard.” Tears slipped down her face. “Codename Sable’s last words. You should know this one.” She mocked him, throwing his past words back at him.                

                Vegeta’s eyes rolled, but he forced them to focus, glaring straight at her, their noses only a few inches apart. “I love you, Blue.” He said, running a red-coated tongue over bloody teeth. Bulma snatched her hand back, as if burned, and his head lolled, chin dropping down to hit his chestplate.

                “Put him in the fucking tank.” She snapped, then turned and strode away without another word.

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TeamFourStar reference FTW! Hope you caught it.

Please consider leaving a review! I’d love to know what you thought.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with. If I did, Bulma wouldn’t have ended with such an ugly haircut. Nothing like a good ol’ bowl cut.

Author’s Notes: Sorry about the delay. Not super long, I know, but longer than I’d planned. I’ve been getting crap shifts at work lately, leaving me little time to write.

Thanks, as always, to everyone who’s reviewed. I love to see the same names over again, to know how the chapter to chapter readers are thinking. Some new reviewers have appeared as well, and I’m grateful for the feedback! I hope you continue to review!

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PRESENT DAY

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                “Put him in the fucking tank.” Bulma snapped and strode away, confident that someone would obey her. Krillin and Sixteen looked once at each other, then warily at the slumped body of the Saiyan Prince before shuffling in closer. Nappa and Radditz growled threateningly, but Gohan quelled them with a few surprising words, delivered in his typical calm and understated manner.

                “She’s Blue, you know.” He said, and both adults looked at him, surprised.

                “How do you know, brat?” Radditz snarled, turning back to watch as the human trash hauled his prince up, Krillin helping to hoist the injured warrior into Sixteen’s arms. All three Saiyans winced at the undignified manner in which their leader was being carried away, but made no move against the humans. Vegeta had ordered them to come here; they had to trust that the prince knew what he was doing.

                “I recognized her voice. I tried to tell you, but...” Gohan trailed off, wilting under the glaring eyes of his Uncle. “She’ll take care of him.” He insisted.

                “Well Fuck.” Radditz spat.

                “We should have known that Vegeta would have had a reason for coming here.” Nappa said, altogether too calmly for Radditz’s liking.

                “Fuck you, Nappa.” The long haired Saiyan spat, bristling at the other’s nonchalant attitude. “Me and the kid, we already knew, but you don’t seem a damn bit surprised.”

                Nappa turned, cocked an eyebrow at Radditz and said, smugly, “Should I be?” Then he straightened his armour and in just a few massive strides, had caught up to Krillin and Sixteen. He wasn’t about to let the incapacitated prince out of his sight. Tien’s eyes followed him closely as he went, but the three-eyed warrior didn’t move to stop him.

                “I guess we should follow the old bastard.” Radditz sighed, plopping one huge hand on Gohan’s little shoulder. He strode off, the boy following closely behind, but had he looked closer, Radditz would have noticed the way his nephew’s gaze darted shamefully from his mother to the floor, and the way the boy scurried behind him like a frightened animal.

                Chichi watched him go, her heart aching but her mind confused. That boy, he was her baby and they both knew it, but there was something wrong when a child would rather skulk off with his uncle than say hello to the mother he hadn’t seen for three-odd years.

                Why, until about ten minutes ago, she hadn’t even known he was alive.

*

*

                Nappa, Radditz and Bulma all glared at each other, tense and silent, as Sixteen laid Vegeta out on the infirmary table. Gohan stared meekly at his shoes, plainly anxious.

                “Bulma, if you would prep the tank?” Sixteen said calmly, either completely ignorant of the tension that surrounded him, or just doing a very good job of ignoring it. He reached for Vegeta’s boots, deftly pulling them from the injured man’s feet and setting them carefully on the floor. Their white surface was tattered and shabby, dirty from wear, and the gold tips were dull and blackened. Bulma swallowed, wondering just what the hell had happened for one of the strongest warriors in the universe to show up on her doorstep looking like that. His chest plate was cracked, the bodysuit beneath torn and ripped, caked with blood. Skin cracked and bled anew as Sixteen carefully peeled the gloves – what was left of them – from the prince’s hands. Bulma swallowed bile, realizing that the fabric had melted into his flesh. She watched the muscles in his jaw clench, heard the controlled exhale of breath through his flared nostrils; plainly he was still conscious and making an effort not to scream. Despite her fury at him, a brief trill of pity shot through her. Had it been her on the table, she knew she’d have been bawling.

                “Hand me those scissors.” Sixteen said calmly, pointing to a pair of shears next to Nappa’s hand. The big Saiyan frowned, warily eyeing up the android. “I do not want to move him unnecessarily.” He explained, woodenly. “I intend to cut away his suit, rather than attempt to peel it off of him.” Nappa grumbled and handed over the scissors, which Sixteen accepted with grace.

                None of them seemed to care that she was present while the body suit was hacked away, though Bulma herself blushed absurdly to see him in his underwear, knowing that he would likely be stripped bare before entering the tank. She knew it was hardly the moment to be having such thoughts, but seeing his bare muscles, slick with perspiration, she could not help but to recall some of her racier dreams.

                Shit, she thought to herself. If Vengeance and Vegeta were the same person, there went her favourite threesome fantasy. She eyed the other two Saiyans; Radditz wasn’t bad, but Puar had sort of already staked a claim, even if this was just fantasy, and Nappa...well, maybe with a bag over his head.

                Gathering her wits, she forced herself not to blush and look away as Sixteen’s big hands pulled away the last remaining bits of Vegeta’s clothing, leaving him stark naked on the table. So what, if his penis was right there, for all the world to see. She could look at it without being reduced to the stammering embarrassment of a fifteen year old virgin. This was a medical situation, and she was Bulma Briefs! She’d seen a penis before; it was really no big deal.

                Radditz caught her looking. She coughed and blushed, quickly whirling away to check the status of the machine. When she turned back around, Sixteen was prepping a needle.

                “No anaesthetic.” Nappa commanded, his first words since they’d entered the medical bay. Sixteen stopped short, the needle a mere inch away from the prince’s skin. He looked uncomprehendingly at the biggest Saiyan.

                “I intend to clean out his wounds so that the dirt will not infect the tank.” He said in his ever monotone voice. “It will be quite painful for him.”

                “He can handle it.” Nappa stood his ground. “No drugs.” He stepped forward, a low rumble emanating from his throat, like the warning growl of an angry dog.

                “That’s cruel!” Bulma piped up, stepping up to the slab. “There’s no need for him to suffer.” She was surprised to find herself concerned for him. She didn’t really know what to make of her newfound knowledge, and bitterly thought that she should just let him lay there in agony while Sixteen scrubbed at the raw flesh with alcohol.

                “I said he’ll be fine.” Nappa snarled, leaning over the slab so that his nose was a mere few inches from hers. She could smell the dirt and stale sweat clinging to his skin and her nose wrinkled with distaste but she stood her ground. He was no worse than Vegeta, who added the coppery tang and old-meat smells of both fresh and crusted blood.

                “Fine!” She shouted into his face. “What do I care, anyway? Let him suffer.” She spat, stepping back from the line she’d drawn with Nappa. She grabbed a cloth and the bottle of rubbing alcohol, shoving it at Sixteen as she traded him for the needle, which she emptied and set aside to be properly cleaned. Bulma watched, unable to contain her twitchiness as Sixteen methodically wiped out each scrape, cut and gouge, wincing especially at the peeled skin of the palms. Vegeta lay still and silent, aside from the occasional tightening of muscle to indicate his pain. She noticed the disturbing way in which Nappa, Radditz and Gohan all watched so intently, their eyes never straying from whichever area Sixteen was working on. While the older Saiyans’ faces remained hard, little Gohan, barely reaching his uncle’s waist, looked as though he might be sick behind his tough facade. Bulma desperately wanted to reach out and take him away, tell him he needn’t watch, but with Vegeta hovering in and out of consciousness, she was afraid that no one would be there to control the other two if they objected to her coddling.

                Finished with the wounds, Sixteen swiped the cloth quickly over Vegeta’s intact skin, mostly his face and hair – the only parts that had been exposed – to remove some of the excess dirt and sweat. Before the android was able to, Nappa swooped in and deftly picked up the much smaller body of his prince. Sixteen, not easily put off, directed Nappa to the tank. Bulma was surprised to see the big Saiyan begin the connection process, quickly and easily hooking up the various electrodes and tubes essential in monitoring the patient’s vital signs and also providing the massive amounts of nutrition necessary to nourish the rapidly healing body of the patient. As he hooked on Vegeta’s breathing mask, it struck her suddenly that he must have done this many times before. She wondered at why Vegeta and the other Saiyans would possibly wind up in regeneration tanks so much, strong as they were. The thought made her stomach curdle.

                The three Saiyans stood in line, military style, watching with rigid backs and perfect posture as the tank closed and the cool jelly began to flood the tank. Vegeta’s eyes widened briefly as the cold wetness began to engulf him, but he sat patiently, plainly no stranger to this process, only allowing his eyes to drift shut as the goo hit nose level. Bulma watched, surprised as all three Saiyans dropped to one knee in unison, bringing their right fists up and across to pound the left side of their chests. They bowed their heads and murmured something in unison, in a language Bulma did not understand, before quickly righting themselves again as the tank bleeped to indicate that it was full and that the healing processes had begun.

                “We will take watch in rotation.” Nappa was saying to the other two, speaking once more in Standard. “I will take first watch. Gohan, you will return in eight hours. Radditz, you will take the shift after Gohan. We will continue in this vein until Prince Vegeta is removed from the tank.”

                “Understood.” Radditz said, with Gohan’s “Yes sir” chiming in a split second later. Both saluted, right hand fisted over their hearts, but this time they omitted the kneeling bow. Nappa quickly took up a position with his back to the tank, feet braced wide and arms crossed over his chest, glaring out at anyone who dared approach his slumbering prince. That left Bulma and Sixteen with the two Saiyans, all four of them glancing awkwardly at each other.

                “Well...come on.” Bulma finally broke the silence, straightening up and puffing out her chest. She noticed the way that Radditz’s perplexed eyes darted down to her breasts and then back up to her face. His nostrils flared, but he said nothing. “I’ll show you where the showers are, and we’ll find you a place to sleep, I guess.” She turned and walked forward, trying to look impressive and in-charge, despite the fact that she still wore her tattered old slippers from that morning. It seemed like weeks ago, that she had been sitting in front of her computer, engaged in the most unpleasant task that she could think of, though it had been only hours. She grimaced, knowing that she’d have to get right back to her task, once they Saiyans were settled it.

                Settled in! She almost snorted at the thought of it. Never, in a million years, did she think she’d be playing host to some of the universe’s most notorious killers, and all she could think about was getting them showered and fed. Gods above, her greatest fear was coming to pass; she was turning into her mother.

                “Now, let’s get this straight.” She said suddenly, just to even things out a little. “I will not tolerate any monkey business while you’re here.” She paused, embarrassed, as she realized what she’d said. Radditz was growling and she could feel her arm hair standing on end; a result of his increasing power. She cringed, but Gohan’s small voice, strong and calm, cut through the tension like a knife, stopping the slow climb of electricity through his uncle’s body. Sixteen watched, no doubt ready to step in should Radditz lose control.

                “It’s an Earth saying.” He laid a small hand on Radditz’s clenched forearm. “She meant nothing by it.” Radditz hmphed and relaxed his stance, but he still glared. To Bulma, Gohan said “Don’t call us monkeys. Ever. Not even as a joke.” She balked at being reprimanded by an eight year old, but the seriousness of his tone stopped her from responding. He said it the same way that stuntmen on TV said _“Don’t try this at home,”_ and he meant it. She remembered Vegeta’s response the night of her ill-fated rescue mission and rather than being difficult, she simply nodded her understanding.

                “Anyway,” she continued, trying to ignore the fact that Gohan had said ‘us’ in reference to the Saiyans, “No fooling around. No violence. I won’t have any of you attacking anyone on this ship. You can pass the message on to your big, bald friend in there, too. You play nice, and we return the favour.”

                “We will obey Vegeta’s orders.” Radditz said, stubbornly. “It is his will, and not yours, that will keep you all alive.”

                “Well up till this morning, that would have bothered me.” Bulma grimaced, “But Vengeance,” she spat the name out like something sour, “has need of my genius. Now,” she stopped, the small party having reached the living quarters of the ship, “I’m assuming his almighty highness will want his own room when he wakes up. We only have three empty ones left, so two of you are bunking up.”

                “The brat and I will room together.” Radditz put in, and the two Saiyans shared a grimace. Nappa was a snorer and a farter, and both considered it worse than torture to have to room with him for any length of time. Bulma nodded, slowly. Gohan did not seem to object to the idea, though she herself was slightly bothered by it. The boy, once a sweet, shy child who would not hurt a fly, seemed so comfortable with this trio of violent men, as though he belonged to them more than he did his mother’s kind. Had he even said ‘hello’ to Chichi, she wondered?

                “Take this one then,” she led them through a door, “it has two beds.” They followed her through, identical swaggers carrying them in. She watched them inspect the place – warily sniffing and pacing out the floor like nervous animals in an unfamiliar place. They worked in tandem, each covering places that the other had not, as though they were used to watching each others’ backs. It occurred to Bulma that they certainly were; even without the ability to read power levels, she could tell that they were the weakest of the quartet and so were probably used to helping each other more than Nappa and Vegeta, who seemed to rely upon themselves. Did the family bond have something to do with that? She wondered if being someone’s uncle even mattered to a man like Radditz.

                Having completed their rounds, she watched the two come together, watching Radditz’s hand reach out to ruffle the boy’s hair, and she realized that it mattered very much. The two were so close, so alike in looks that she thought Radditz may as well have been Gohan’s father, rather than Goku.

                “I’ll...uh, leave you two to get settled. Take your time. I’m going to see if I can steal some clean clothes from Krillin and Sixteen for you guys.” Bulma said, backing into the doorway. “Bathrooms are right across the hall and the kitchen and living room are down to the right and around the corner.” She pointed with her hand. “If you’re anything like Goku though, I’m sure you’ll be able to find your way.” She slipped out and shut the door behind her, before scurrying away to find her friends and let them know what was going on.

                “She knew Kakarott?” Radditz asked, when the door had closed and Bulma’s footsteps had retreated. Once they’d finally convinced him that his father had been Radditz’s brother, Gohan had told them about his father, who was called Goku. The three adults had consulted each other briefly, and come to the conclusion that Kakarott must have been hurt as a baby, likely hitting his head hard enough to damage his still-growing brain.

                “I tried to tell you.” Gohan sighed, shrugging out of his chest armour. “That night when we heard Vegeta talking to Blue, I recognized her voice. She was my dad’s best friend from when they were young.”

                “And your mother?” Radditz asked, “That black haired woman?”

                “I...” Gohan cringed. “I don’t know if she’ll want to be my mother for much longer.” He kicked off his boots. Radditz prodded for more information, but Gohan had clammed up. Radditz shrugged, never one for intimate heart-to-hearts anyway, and stalked to the door in nothing but his boots and the little black shorts he wore beneath his armour. Gohan followed him across the hall into the men’s washroom, which looked like something out of a dormitory. Two toilet stalls and two urinals faced four sinks over which a simple shelf and a long, rectangular mirror hung. Two neatly folded stacks of clothing rested on the shelf, each with two towels stacked on top – Bulma figured they’d each need one for their unruly masses of hair. Through a doorway, eight shower stalls waited, four on either side of the room, facing each other, with a bench and hooks on the far wall.

                “Are there really that many people here?” Radditz asked, and Gohan shrugged, dumping his stuff onto one of the benches. A peek inside the shower stalls confirmed that each one was already stocked with all the necessities.

                “I dunno. I think a lot of people were with Bulma and my mom on that spaceship.” Gohan said, turning on the taps and stepping into the scalding spray. “And I don’t think even she could have built this place in just three years, so there must be other people too.” He lathered his hair with sweet smelling shampoo that Radditz was certainly scoffing at in his stall across the way. “Like that Sixteen guy. I didn’t know him.”

                “Hmm.” Radditz grunted, indeed scowling at the heady floral aroma that he was rubbing into his hair. “What the shit is this, anyway?”

                “The shampoo? Smells like white freesia to me. My mom used to grow them.” Gohan paused, inhaling the suds as he rinsed them from his hair. “I like it.”

                “You would.” Radditz grumped, but squirted more out from the dispenser and lathered his generous mane a second time. Just to get all the dirt out, of course.

                “Maybe Bulma will get us something manlier if we ask nicely.” Gohan laughed, recalling the warriors that had greeted them, and the old friends he suspected were hidden away behind thick walls. “I don’t think there’s a lot of hair here to go around. The way the shampoo smells is probably a moot point to most of the men on this station.”

                Radditz grumbled, but the soap _was_ manlier; more spicy than floral. Perhaps Gohan had a point. “Tell me about this Bulma.” He recalled the way she had looked at the presentation – too stupid for her own good – but if she’d managed to re-create the ki-gun technology then she was a damn good actress. He also remembered the way she’d smelled, but he hadn’t caught the same scent from her today. He’d been excited, despite the danger, as he stepped out of his pod and caught a lingering, familiar scent. Then he’d seen her and it had all made sense...and yet when he got close, he found that the scent he craved was not emanating from her at all! It tainted the air in the ship, strong in some places, less so in others, but she was not the source, and he began to think of Puar. He’d tried to trace the origins of the man’s call number but had come up empty. Perhaps Puar was a part of this silly little resistance movement. Perhaps, as he’d mused upon first seeing the man, Puar and Barbie – Bulma, he amended – were related after all.

                Radditz opened his mouth, intending to ask the child if he knew someone by the name of Puar, but he stopped himself at the last second. At times he felt as though silent, stoic little Gohan was years ahead of him in maturity, but the fact remained that the kid was eight, and Radditz didn’t want to be the one to explain boozy hook-ups and seedy hotels...well, maybe when Gohan was older. For now, despite his maturity, there was an odd air of innocence around the kid – something rare in Frieza’s army. He kept his mouth shut; if Puar was on Red Station, Radditz would be sure to find him.

                Puar. Radditz almost moaned the name aloud. No one had ever gotten to him the way that beautiful bastard had. It was pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t get that one night out of his mind, damn his foolish brain! It was dumb to be so obsessed with one creature, one man, but he was, damn it, and he was far too infatuated to convince himself that any other path was a good idea.

                He pressed his forehead against the tiled wall, grateful for the cool surface as the hot water beat down on his shoulders, as he recalled for the thousandth time, at least, the night with Puar. He remembered every detail; the nervous caution of the other man as they checked in, the slow loosening of tightly wound muscles as they became more accustomed to each other, less bound by inhibitions. He groaned, feeling himself harden as he remembered the slow slide of flesh against flesh, the taste of salty skin on his tongue...

                Shit. He had to reign himself in. Last time he’d checked, jacking off while your eight year old nephew was in the same room, even if he couldn’t see you, was not appropriate. Sight aside, there was no way that Gohan wouldn’t smell it, and the thought made Radditz cringe. Men tended to be less inhibited in Frieza’s army, that was true, but the Saiyans were used to a little more privacy. They were usually given their own rooms, or at least private showers...

                “Fuck.” Radditz cursed, when he remembered that he was also bunking with the damn kid. His balls were going to turn blue and fall off, what with that intoxicating scent always just hovering on the edge of his senses.

                “Everything okay?” Gohan called over, hearing his uncle’s profanity.

                “Err, dropped the soap.” Radditz called back, adding another thing to the list of stuff he never wanted to talk to the cub about. He’d figure it out for himself in a few years, if he hadn’t already.  Radditz was pretty confident that no one had ever had to tell _him_ about masturbation. It was just one of nature’s miracles.

                “I thought you told me never to do that.” Gohan snickered.

                “Public shower rule only.” Radditz groaned. There were some things that they _had_ told the kid for his safety. To not mention that one would have been negligent on their part. He was one of them, and it was their job to give him the best chances of survival that they could. That had meant many things to them, though teaching him to fight was their top priority and by far the most enjoyable task they’d set themselves. Telling him the things he did not want to hear, vocalizing the things so keenly known but so rarely spoken about was not. Gohan had a strong sense of justice and a conviction that none of his new kinsmen shared, that people were essentially good. He didn’t really understand why anyone would want to hurt someone else and didn’t believe that ‘evil’ as he called it, could run so rampant among the universe.

                Radditz had lain awake many nights, wondering at the world that his nephew must have been born into, and feeling almost sad for its loss. He knew the boy had been but a pup when he lived on that planet, knew that Gohan’s recollections and ideas belonged in the realm of idealism, for no people could be that free of greed and selfishness, but he yearned for it all the same. Never in his life had he met anyone so kindhearted as his wide-eyed nephew. Even as the boy lived and breathed the moral stench of Frieza’s ranks, even as he became tainted by the violence of it all, Radditz sometimes caught a glimpse of the terrified child that Gohan had been before they’d taught him to bury it.

                Radditz wondered how the child would cope with this sudden crash of two cultures together, of his old life with his new one. He wished the mother hadn’t been present. If it was just other earthlings, other humans, Radditz thought they would be able to keep their hold on the child, but with his mother suddenly in the picture, things weren’t so sure. In teaching Gohan about Saiyan culture, the three Saiyans had learned a good deal about Human culture, and they’d been unimpressed and wary of the ideals that their young charge spouted.

                Radditz jumped, pulled from his thoughts, as a third shower was turned on. He hadn’t even heard the man, whoever it was, come in. “Just me, you two. No worries.” Krillin’s voice resounded nervously off the tiled walls and floor. He had wanted to wait until the Saiyans were finished, well Radditz at least, but Bulma had practically forced him into the washroom, wrinkling her nose at his blood soaked shirt and stained arms. He felt both of their power levels swell, no doubt at the smell of their prince’s blood, and he regretted not changing before he entered the room.

                “Hello, Krillin.” Gohan said, stepping from his shower stall as he wrapped a towel around his waist. Krillin shivered at the odd note of control in the kid’s voice, but gaped in surprise at the powerfully sculpted young body. He’d known Gohan would be different, of course, but he didn’t expect to see a bodybuilder in miniature standing before him. The door to the left creaked open and Radditz stepped out, not bothering to hide his intimidating nudity as he stepped from the stall. He looked down his wrinkled nose, sneering at Krillin, every single exposed muscle tense and bunched, as his tail lashed wetly behind him. He shook his head, dripping hair spraying water as he straightened, plainly unimpressed by the sight of the tiny warrior. Krillin dove for a stall, quickly shedding his bloody t-shirt and tossing it into the laundry bin for the robots to either clean or discard at their will. He really didn’t care if he never saw the shirt again, so long as the big Saiyan with the eye-level junk would let him live.

                “Let’s get out of here, Kid.” Radditz rumbled, reaching for his towel. “I’m fucking hungry.”

*

*

                Bulma tiptoed across the floor, casting a furtive glance at the slumbering Saiyan as she did so. Nappa, sleep deprived from too many hours spent anxiously listening to the prince’s breathing over the communication link between their ships, had fallen asleep. She’d been keeping an eye on him all day, waiting for him to slip up so that she could sneak in. She really didn’t want to get Gohan in trouble, and it would have been cruel to wait long enough for Radditz to fall asleep on his shift.

                Quietly as she could, she scrolled through the regeneration tank’s computer menu, each tap of the keys sounding like a pounding hammer in the quiet. No matter who he was or what he’d done, she wasn’t about to let Vegeta suffer through the healing process without painkillers. It was cruel, plain and simple, and she didn’t abide cruelty in any measure. The fact that Nappa would willingly allow, and even insist upon the suffering of his prince spoke volumes to her about the Saiyan way of life, and she was more determined than ever to break Gohan away from them. When there was no need for Vengeance to exist anymore, she would find a way to do away with Vegeta and the other two. For now, she would forge whatever bonds of friendship she could.

                Stepping back, she watched as the computer confirmed her dose of meds and began feeding it into the nourishment tubes. Soon Vegeta would be out cold, blissfully unaware of the pain his body was in. There, her conscience could rest.

                The smile fell from her face as Vegeta’s eyes snapped open, wide and furious through the haze of the regeneration fluid. There was something wild about his face, something terrifyingly animal, and she took an uncertain step backward as he began to thrash inside the tank, limbs jerking violently, pulling strength from some unknown place within himself. She shrieked as one of his fists collided with the glass, again and again, forming tiny hairline fissures.

                Nappa awoke with a start, staring in horror as his prince writhed within the tank, furiously ripping tubes from his skin, re-opening half-healed wounds and creating new ones as his hands scraped wildly at the glass barrier between himself and freedom. “What did you DO?” Nappa roared, coming to life as he hurled himself off the chair he’d fallen asleep on. “You stupid bitch!” He caught her by her t-shirt, hauling her up on her toes as he glared down at her, nostrils flaring with every breath. “I said no drugs!”

                “PUT HER DOWN!” Chichi shrieked from the doorway, where Sixteen stood blocking her entrance. “Let me in, you tin can! Put Bulma down!”

                “Chichi, please.” Sixteen tried to reason with her, but she shoved past him just as the tank finally gave way and the prince tumbled out, naked and dripping and roaring with fury. He knelt on the floor, blood pooling as the broken shards of glass cut into his legs and feet, clutching at his head, panting like an animal. Nappa dropped Bulma and whirled, crouching down in an attempt to comfort his prince. He spoke rapidly in that same language that Bulma had heard earlier, his voice gruff yet reassuring. Bulma scuttled backward, away from the gory scene as quickly as she could, terrified that the big one would come after her again. Glass crunched beneath her sneakers.

                Vegeta roared again, lashing out with one arm to knock the biggest Saiyan flat into the wall, just as Radditz and Gohan stormed in. “SHIT!” Radditz exclaimed, running to pull Nappa up, uncaring of the shards beneath his bare feet. “What happened?”

                “She put drugs in the tank.” Nappa snarled, accusingly. “That bitch tried to knock him out.”

                “H...he was in pain.” Bulma said, weakly, as she watched the shuddering, moaning man on the floor. Gohan had snagged a blanket from somewhere and was inching slowly toward the prince. Gently, he shook it out and tossed it over Vegeta’s back, hiding the prince’s naked, trembling skin from view. The prince snarled but his pale, shaky hands reached out to tug the blanket tight around his hunched shoulders.

                Radditz and Gohan exchanged a tentative look. “Frieza?” Gohan questioned after a moment, and Nappa nodded, gravely. Bulma shuddered at the looks of fear and disgust on all of their faces.

                “Nappa,” Vegeta ground out, in warning. Plainly, this was something that he did not want discussed, and his mind had returned enough to take control of the disastrous situation. He stood, shakily, and wrapped the blanket around his hips. He was still weak, but a thousand times better than when they’d brought him in. He glared ruefully at the destroyed tank behind him, before shaking his head and walking toward Nappa’s chair. He snatched a pair of tweezers from a tray before sitting down to survey the damage he’d done to his shins and feet. Without a glance at those gathered, he began picking the glass shards from his wounds, ignoring the trails of blood that sprang forth with each one. Bulma cringed with each _plink_ of glass against the metal discard pan.

                “I will need bandages.” Vegeta said as he surveyed the torn mess that was his right foot. Sixteen was the only one that moved. He rummaged in a cupboard for some bandages and rubbing alcohol, before putting them on the table. “I have no need of your help. You will all get out now.” Vegeta spoke quietly, but with a confidence and authority that none of them even thought of disobeying. “Except you.” He finally looked up to pinpoint Bulma in his gaze. Nappa growled, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of leaving this wretched woman alone with his wounded prince, but he was silenced with a quick glare.

                “I’m not your servant. I don’t have to do what you tell me to.” Bulma said, crossing her arms over her chest. She felt a lot less confident than she sounded, with everyone filing obediently out of the room. Well, Chichi was sort of dragged by Sixteen, but still, it left her alone with _him_.

                “Ahh, but you will.” Vegeta went back to picking glass from his flesh. “Because this is your fault and you feel guilty.” He put the tweezers aside and yanked out a particularly large piece with his fingers, not even wincing at the spurt of blood. This one had obviously hit a semi-important vein. He looked at the bloody glass impartially, before dropping it into the pan. He looked at Bulma as he did so. “You will indulge me. It is your way.”

                Bulma frowned, irritated at how right he was. “Just what was that, anyway?” She asked, but was rewarded with silence. “Hello? You’re the one that wanted me to stay! Was it just so I could watch you pull glass out of your feet in silence? And I hope you plan on doing something about that!” She gestured with an arm at the ruined tank.

                “Nappa expressly told you not to give me painkillers. You disregarded his warnings. These are the consequences that you must live with.”

*

*

                “Come on, Nappa.” Radditz prodded the older man. “You need to eat something. Build up some strength for when Vegeta decides to dole out your punishment.” Nappa’s face fell even lower than it already was, if that was possible, and he grabbed the dish from Radditz. “Falling asleep on sentry duty.” Radditz whistled, low and long. “That’s a doozy. Glad it wasn’t me.” He grinned widely at the other man’s death glare. Radditz was having a lot of fun; normally it was him in deep shit and not Nappa, the paragon of obedience.

                “Radditz, shut your fucking face,” Nappa growled, pulling out a chair and plopping his bulk right next to Gohan, “or I’ll shut it for you.” Chichi, who had followed them to the kitchen, gasped and glared at the big man, offended by his harsh language and appalled that _this_ was what had taken care of her son in her absence. “You shut it too, bitch.” Nappa tucked into his meal without looking up, grinning at the way Gohan bristled, next to him.

                “Is she safe in there, with him?” Chichi asked of no one in particular. Sixteen put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a gesture Gohan didn’t miss.

                “She’ll be okay.” Gohan answered into his plate, still unwilling to meet his mother’s eyes.

                “Even if she wasn’t, ain’t nothing you could do about it anyway.” Radditz took the seat on the other side of Gohan in an unmistakeable show of solidarity.

                “Let us leave them to eat.” Sixteen said quietly, placing a hand on Chichi’s back to steer her out of the room. Gohan watched in surprise as his mother allowed herself to be led away by the stranger. Had she ever been so willing to follow Goku’s suggestions? Gohan remembered her having been the boss, his father bowing to her will. He cringed a little at a memory of his mother wielding a frying pan while his father cowered in the corner. Perhaps Goku _had_ been weak. Perhaps that orange-haired giant was much stronger than he seemed.

                Nappa let out a low whistle and elbowed Gohan in the ribs, causing the boy to choke a little on his food. “What’s going on there, you think?” He waggled his eyebrows at Gohan, who scowled back. “How long has daddy even been dead?”

                “Nappa, shut it.” Radditz growled. “Don’t make everyone miserable because Vegeta’s gonna beat the shit outta you later.”

                “Seems your weak brother couldn’t hold his woman.” Nappa grinned, unaware that he had food stuck in his teeth.

                “Say what you want, I’m gonna help Vegeta break you.”

                “No regen tank either.” Gohan said, surprising both men with the venom in his voice. Nappa grimaced, having forgotten that fact. He was not looking forward to facing the prince.

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Nappa’s a jerk with a heart of gold...well, not gold, nor silver. But at least copper, for sure. And hey, that shit’s pretty valuable! So are your reviews! To me...in a non-monetary sense...If I told you I feed solely on reviews, would you leave one?


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Thanks go out to everyone who has reviewed since last time! To those of you who leave signed reviews, sorry the replies were so late! Life has been hectic. :D

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PRESENT DAY

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“Nappa expressly told you not to give me painkillers. You disregarded his warnings. These are the consequences that you must live with.” Vegeta said, as he calmly dabbed away some blood, allowing him to see the next shard of glass.

“C...consequences?” She watched him, waiting for the flinch that never came, the hitch of breath that signalled he was in pain, and was amazed at his nonchalance. He was pulling hunks of glass the size of her fingernail out of his foot, and not even wincing. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Do to you?” Vegeta sighed, irritated at having to dig for a sliver that had broken off a larger piece. “Nothing, for the moment. As much as it grates on my nerves to speak to you, you are my ally and you are in unfortunate possession of some very important information that puts me in danger. As much as I would like to kill you for that,” he glared at her to emphasize his point, “I still have use for you.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” She snapped, sarcastically.

“If you valued your life, you would be. Now,” he was remarkably businesslike for a naked man in a blanket, picking glass out of his flesh, “I believe we have some important things to discuss.”

“Such as you freaking out and destroying my regeneration tank?”

“Such as the fact that every pathetic soul on this station now knows the identity of the universe’s biggest threat to Frieza’s empire,” Vegeta said, neatly dodging her question, “and to my knowledge, you have yet to find the information leak.”

“Shit.” Bulma said, her eyes popping out of her head. “SHIT.” She said, a bit louder this time, as she spun on her heel and raced from the room, the rubber bottoms of her slippers slap, slap, slapping on the floor as she went. In her haste, she kicked them off, gaining speed in her bare feet as she huffed along down corridors, blazing a desperate path to her lab and the access point to the ship’s computer security systems. “I’ll be back!” She called over her shoulder to the bewildered prince who sat, mouth half open, eyebrows raised in surprise, as she sprinted around a corner.

What a stupid, scatterbrained, ridiculous woman she was. He had a hard time believing that the same brain that had managed to re-create the ki-weapon technology would have forgotten such an important fact. Vegeta sneered, remembering the gun against his head, recalling the sight and smell of her shaking, nervous body as she threatened to blow him apart. She was ballsy, he’d give her that one, but foolish. She’d proven that already, the night that she and her companion had snuck onto Frieza’s base in that ill-fated attempt to ‘rescue’ Gohan.

Gohan. Fucking brat. Vegeta scowled to himself as he examined his legs and feet, concluding that they were free enough of glass that he could bandage them. Anything left behind would work its own way out eventually. How had the boy known? He recalled a time he thought of as a ‘close call’ and realized that he’d been a complete fool to believe that Radditz and Gohan hadn’t heard him talking. He sighed and reached for the roll of gauze laid out for him, wondering if he’d have killed them, had he known beforehand that they were aware of his clandestine activities. The answer was almost certainly yes, but there was a niggling little part in the back of his brain that said he’d have kept them around – maybe beat them so badly they’d never be able to speak of it to anyone, but left them alive.

The longer Blue – Bulma, he amended – was gone, the more agitated he became. The idea that his identity had leaked and Frieza’s forces were on their way at that moment stuck in his gut like a knife. He consoled himself momentarily with the thought that his pod’s tracking chip was far away at the moment, off on a leisurely tour of the galaxy, but then realized that the leak was undoubtedly aware of Red Station’s coordinates, and perfectly able to give them up.

He tried not to think about his years of hard work and sacrifice going down the drain, to end his traitorous life in misery and pain, dead by a sadistic tyrant’s hands. He thought it unlikely that Frieza would give him a good death, quick and clean. He supposed he could spend months, even years in the Icejin’s torture chambers, a slow death brought on by countless indignities to his person, to his pride. He shuddered, suddenly feeling cold and wet and very vulnerable beneath his flimsy blanket.

*

*

                “I feel like something is changing, don’t you Piccolo?” Goku wheezed, as he strained to lift a boulder onto the massive pile that was being gathered. The rock only weighed a few hundred pounds – six or seven at most – but he’d been caught sneaking Piccolo’s portion of last night’s dinner, and had been denied breakfast and lunch as a result. His stomach howled in protest and he begged it to shut up; if the guards heard, he would be in trouble again.

                “What do you mean, Goku?” The green man heaved against his own boulder, having a much easier time with it than his comrade.

                “I don’t know.” Goku smiled, an odd little grin that was appearing on his face more and more, as of late. Piccolo frowned, worried. His one-time enemy was beginning to lose it, he was certain. His brain was going as wild as his hair, which had nearly reached his shoulders. Every once in a while, he would gain access to a sharp tool needed for work, and hack it down to more manageable levels, but they’d been quarrying rocks for quite some time now and aside from their own muscles, the only tools they ever saw were picks and wheelbarrows.

                “Is it a good change, or a bad change?”

                “A good one, I think.” Goku finally managed to heft his boulder up, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he did so. Piccolo watched the other man’s muscles shake with strain. Back on Earth, this kind of task would have been nothing to the childlike strongman – the only difficulty would have been getting a grip on the man-sized boulders. Three years of back breaking labour later, one would think that the Earthling would have grown stronger, but he appeared to have hit a plateau, and perhaps even slid downhill a little bit. It confused Piccolo to see, for the other man had always seemed to grow stronger with every fight, coming back more powerful after every injury, and he had suffered injury enough to make him the universe’s strongest man, by those rules. But, he reminded himself as he reached for another boulder, the other man existed in a constant state of exhaustion and suffering from severe malnourishment, it seemed his body was struggling just to keep itself alive. Surely the conditions they were living in would have killed a normal human by now.  

                Piccolo growled. He really didn’t want to have to care about someone else’s welfare; he was having a hard enough time dragging himself along from day to day without having to worry about Goku. Frustrated, he recalled the joining with Kami, and knew that as Piccolo Daimyo, he’d have just left his companion for dead, or better yet, killed the Earthling himself. Unfortunately for him, the part of his soul that had belonged to Kami also made it impossible for him to truly wish he’d remained the Demon King. Old bastard.

*

*

                Bulma meandered her way back into the medical bay, a thoughtful frown on her face. Someone had brought the prince a pair of pants – whose, she didn’t know – and he was busy trying to beat the dirt out of his boots. “I don’t understand it.” She said, softly, one hand cupping her chin while the other crossed her breasts to support a bent elbow.

                “I’m sure that’s not uncommon.” Vegeta quipped, not bothering to look up as he slipped bandaged feet into his battered footwear. Bulma rolled her eyes and chose to ignore his snarky comment.

                “I locked down the ship’s communication systems.” She said pausing to inspect his shirtless state. Someone had obviously come in to bring him clothes and to tend to him further. He was bandaged around the ribs, plainly still suffering despite his brief stay in the regeneration tank. Most of his superficial wounds had healed, or at least begun to, so that his skin no longer looked like a child’s finger painting – mottled tones of black, blue and yellow blending together over bronze skin. Bulma noticed, as he shrugged into a shirt and began buttoning it, that the nasty burns on his hands had healed over, though the centers of his palms still bore the raw pinkness of new skin. She recognized the Cc logo on the breast pocket of the shirt and smiled to herself – Vegeta was wearing her dad’s clothes.

                Well, he sure made them look a lot better than her father ever had.

                “Anway,” she continued, “Everything that goes in or out will have to go through my personal account, on my lab computer. It’s under video surveillance and my account is, of course, heavily protected. The odd thing is that there haven’t been any outgoing transmissions since you arrived. You’d think the leak would have been running to the computers to send out that kind of information.”

                Vegeta nodded, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he thought. “Perhaps the culprit did not have the chance to escape and compose the message?” He mused to himself. “Or more likely, he is smarter that we give him credit for. Telling Frieza would bring the army down on our asses right away, regardless of whether our little mole has managed to escape. He’d likely be caught up and killed with the rest of us in the onslaught. If that’s the case, he’ll wait until he’s safely away from this place.”

                “Frieza would have his own man killed?” Bulma asked, not necessarily surprised, but shocked to hear it put so bluntly. Vegeta arched one eyebrow and looked at her as though she’d just come to the conclusion that two plus two equals five. “Well that’s just cold.” She huffed, nearly drawing a smirk out of the prince. “I hope you know,” she adopted her bossiest tone, “that we operate differently around here.”

                “Oh? Am I to fall in line behind you, great commander?” Vegeta snapped, sarcasm dripping from every word.

                “I’m in charge here.” Bulma insisted, crossing her arms and throwing him her ‘board of directors’ look. It had always worked on the suits back home. She should have known it would fail utterly on Vegeta. He cocked his head and stared her down, and damn her if she didn’t blink first.

                “Silly little girl,” he purred, and despite the insulting tone of his words, a rush of heat soared down her spine. “You seem to forget that I could snap your neck like a twig.” It was absurd, the things he could say in that voice – Vengeance’s voice – that made her want to jump him. Death threats had never gotten her motor running before.

                “You forget, I have the ki gun.”

                “Oh, this?” Vegeta laughed, running his fingers over the prototype, which she’d stupidly forgotten to take with her when she’d bolted to check the computer systems. “Yes, you must be glad you have it.” He snorted in amusement when Bulma held her hand out, silently fuming. Instead of handing it to her, he asked how powerful it was.

                Bulma desperately wanted to bluff. She wanted to tell him it was powerful enough to knock him into next week, or that it would knock him and his ancestors on their asses, or some other ridiculous and clichéd hyperbole, but she knew that if she did that, then he’d never give it back. And there was no question that if she tried to snatch it away, he’d be up and across the room with it before she could blink.

                “Actually, I haven’t tested it yet.” She clamped down on her pride and her sense of self-preservation, and told the truth.

                “Really?” A slow smile spread across Vegeta’s face. “And why not?”

                “Who would I test it on? I didn’t want to hurt anyone...” Bulma trailed off, the widening smirk on the prince’s face unnerving her to the point of distraction. “What are you thinking?”

                “Nothing.” He said, all innocence as he studied the gun in his hands. “But I’m going to keep this for a while.”

*

*

                “Is there something wrong, Master?” Dende asked, placing a concerned hand on his teacher’s massive arm.

                “What makes you think that, child?” Guru smiled weakly down at his young charge. The boy’s intuitive abilities never failed to please and amaze him. The old sage had been nowhere near as perceptive at Dende’s age.

                “There is something...off,” Dende struggled to find the right word, “about your energies. You seem subdued.”

                “I am merely concerned, my young friend. We have not heard from our dear ally Vengeance for a long time. It is unusual for him.” From his spot in the corner, Nail snorted.

                “Vengeance,” he scoffed. “Your concern for him never fails to astonish me, Guru.”

                “Oh? You have a problem with him?” Guru asked calmly, though from the corner of his eye, he noted the way that Dende shrank back from the older Namek. It puzzled him, and he wondered if he’d been wrong to dismiss the boy’s concerns over the state of Nail’s moods. Perhaps the man was more tightly wound than Guru had realized.

                “I have a problem with not knowing who he is.” Nail spat, uncrossing his arms and pushing away from the wall to stand properly erect. “Won’t you tell me?”

                “You know I’ve been sworn to secrecy, Nail. I shall not betray anyone’s confidences. You must trust in me to judge him correctly.” This was a conversation that they had had before. Many times, in fact, since Vengeance first made contact. Nail huffed and stalked away, and Guru heaved a heavy sigh. It was a cumbersome burden that he placed upon his sons, the last of their kind, so far as he knew. So many brothers and sons dead with father Namek, so few to share the yoke of their mission. It was heavy around all of their necks and caused their shoulders to sag with the weight of it.

                “I feel sometimes as though I share his sentiments.” Dende said quietly, once the older Namek had gone. “About Vengeance, I mean.” He looked up into the sage’s thoughtful face, and said earnestly, “When he speaks, sometimes shivers run down my spine. Sometimes his voice terrifies me so...as if ice is forming in my veins, Master, and yet I do not understand because I trust him still. It is as though a profound evil lives in his soul, and I only feel safe because I know that all of that rage is directed at my enemies and not myself.”

                “You are perceptive, my young son, but you are inexperienced still.” Guru said, patiently. “What lives in Vengeance’s soul is not evil, but sickness. A sickness of the heart, you might say, which causes men to do terrible things.”

                “So he is not to blame?”

                “No...he is to blame, young Dende, and you musn’t ever forget that. But this is not to say that he cannot change. Hatred pierces through him, curls and twists in his belly, fuelling the fires of his rage and his cruelty. But if you can feel safe in knowing that his hatred burns hottest toward others, I think that you must understand that something good lies beneath. Even if it is small and pitiful, it must be there.”

                “You...you are very confident in him.”

                “Yes, as I wish you and Nail would be.”

                “I will try, Master.” Dende said, his gaze cast toward the floor. “And I may fail.”

                “Trying is the most I can ask of you, young son.” Guru smiled and gestured to the cushion on the floor. “But for now, we have lessons.”

*

*

                Nappa, Radditz and Gohan stood nervously on the training mat, lined up in rigid formation from tallest to shortest. Or strongest to weakest, oldest to youngest, highest to lowest rank; they were conveniently all the same. Each one wore an expression of apprehension tinged with fear; it was time for punishment.

                Before them, Vegeta paced slowly back and forth, a thoughtful frown of concentration on his face. They could all see the slight increase of bulk in his frame, added by the padding and bandages beneath his shirt, and they hoped that he wouldn’t exert himself too much in his efforts to bloody them. Despite his attitude and bravado, Vegeta was still an injured man. They needn’t have worried so much, though, for in his hands, Vegeta carried Bulma’s ki-imitating rifle.

                “So,” he said at last, stopping before them, “I suppose my secret was not so well kept as I intended. You two,” he gestured at Radditz and Gohan with the gun, “I suspected that you had heard something that night I caught you eavesdropping, but I suppose it was foolish of me to believe that you wouldn’t make sense of it.” They both gulped; Vegeta _hated_ feeling like a fool. “But you,” Vegeta pointed the gun at Nappa, “you are still a mystery.”

                “I was not aware, exactly, sir.” Nappa said, haltingly. “I did not know that you were Vengeance, my lord, but I suspected you were up to something.”

                “You _suspected_ something?” Vegeta spat, disgusted. Was he really so transparent as to be figured out by a dullard like Nappa?

                “You forget, my prince, that I have had the raising of you since you were a small cub.” Nappa almost smiled at this, wistfully, like a father recalling his grown son’s earliest years. Then he smartened up and said, more seriously, “I do not doubt that I know you better than anyone else in this universe, and I am not surprised to see you take your revenge against Frieza in this way.”

                “You may know me well, Nappa, but your sense of duty must be lacking, for you to fall asleep while on guard duty.” Vegeta spat out, and the biggest saiyan stiffened. He’d known this was coming, certain that the prince would be furious and embarrassed by what had happened. Neither of the other saiyans understood Vegeta’s aversion to anaesthetics; it was not something the prince discussed willingly. It was a testament to the dire nature of their situation that everyone who’d been in the room was still alive.

                “I will take my punishment as you see fit.” Nappa replied, stiffly.

                “Of course you will. As if there was any doubt.” Vegeta glanced at the clock high on the wall and frowned. It was 7:02; Bulma was two minutes late. He resumed his pacing while the other three stood stoically, waiting for their punishment.

                At five after, Bulma strolled in. “Alright, I’m here. Whaddya want?” She asked brashly, hands on hips, but her face betrayed her nervousness. Vegeta had told her, in no uncertain terms, to be in the training room at seven o’clock. She’d showed up five minutes late on purpose, just to piss him off, but seeing the three subordinate saiyans standing so rigidly, she wondered if that had been the best idea. Vegeta looked mad, they looked resigned, and she feared that she’d just made something worse for them.

                Vegeta held up her gun, and she swallowed thickly. He wouldn’t, would he? “This is a ki-imitating rifle, built from the schematics stolen from Frieza’s destroyed weapons base. Despite this woman’s performance upon our landing, it has not been tested.” He informed his men, who looked at the gun with dawning horror. “For lack of subjects, I am informed.” He handed the gun to Bulma, and gestured toward the three guinea pigs. “Problem solved.” He said to her, in that low voice that made her skin shiver and tingle.

                “Hell no, Vegeta,” she said, trying to shove the rifle back at him. “If this is some sort of sick punishment, you do it yourself.”

                “Oh, but it is not only their punishment.” He grasped her hands, squeezing them tightly around the gun, forcing her arms into firing position. “It is yours as well.”

                “You don’t _get_ to punish me,” she snapped, indignantly. “I’m not one of your dogs!”

                “I will be a thousand times harder on them,” he whispered, tauntingly. He’d circled around her, his hands now grasping her upper arms from behind. “Doesn’t your soft, human heart want to save them some pain?” Gohan stiffened, hearing Vegeta’s words; he’d been victim to this tactic before.

                “You’re a sick fuck.” Bulma hissed, trying to ignore the fire that followed his hands, as they trailed up her arms to squeeze her shoulders. “This isn’t fair punishment, this is...ugh!! Couldn’t you just spank me or something, instead?” She whined, blushing to the roots of her hair as soon as the words left her mouth.

                Vegeta’s breath tickled her ear. “Maybe later,” he said. “Now shoot them, or I will.”

                “You’re a bastard, and I’m never, ever letting you spank me.” Bulma growled, her fingers quickly adjusting the rifle’s settings.

                “What’s that?” Vegeta asked, as she deftly turned a dial. “I don’t recall seeing it on the original.”

                “It’s a power inhibitor.” Bulma said, as flipped the safety off. “You can fire with different strengths, just like a real ki-blast. I figure the gun has a certain charge, there’s no need to go wasting energy by firing powerful blasts at week enemies.”

                “Genius.” He smirked, and for once she thought that maybe he wasn’t being sarcastic.

                “Thanks,” she said, before quickly swivelling to but the muzzle of the gun into his chest. “Leader goes first, right?” She smiled and pulled the trigger, knocking the unprepared prince a few feet away. A loud snarl erupted from Nappa as the largest saiyan threw himself at her, murder in his eyes. She shrieked but was quick enough to turn and blast him, too. The weak setting delayed him only a second, shielded as he was, so she upped the power to half total capacity and let loose another blast to knock him onto his back. The recoil was stronger than she would have thought, however, and it sent her stumbling backward to land solidly on her rump.

                Vegeta watched, altogether too calmly, as Nappa hauled himself up and launched himself forward again. He deflected one blast, only to be knocked sideways by another. Vegeta laughed; the woman sure was something. She’d stopped shrieking now, and was concentrating solely on not being killed by Nappa. Vegeta had to admit that she was doing a pretty good job of it. She’d managed several good hits to his chest, knocking him back every time he came at her, but he could tell that she was reluctant to up the voltage and do some real damage.

                “Oh, just blast him already, for fuck’s sake.” Vegeta snorted, watching sweat run down the woman’s forehead as she deflected another near-hit. Resolutely, she shook her head, trying not to pay attention to the awful little troll beside her. She couldn’t believe that he wasn’t stopping this!

                “You said you needed me alive!” She shrieked at him. “Why aren’t you stopping him?”

                “Fine,” Vegeta rolled his eyes and with a movement too quick to see, snatched the gun from her trembling hands, cranked the dial, and let fly. A massive blast shot forth from the muzzle of the gun to hit Nappa square in the chest, sending the big brute crashing through the wall. The kick-back, a strong gust of electrified air, knocked Bulma flat on her ass and left her hair a ball of frizz, as though she’d just stuck her finger into an electrical outlet. Vegeta, who hadn’t moved an inch, was smirking, admiring the gun in his hands. “Nice work.” He commented, offhand, and Bulma glared at him, murder in her eyes, “But the charge is all gone, and he’s not even dead.”

                “You beastly little prick!” She shouted, hauling herself up off the ground and snatching her precious weapon back. “Look at what you’ve done!” She gestured wildly at the crumbled wall, Nappa’s bloody figure sprawled out atop a bed of rubble and bent metal. “And my gun! You could have wrecked it!” She shrieked, examining the prototype in her hands, seeing that the energy gauge was indeed sitting at empty. If it hadn’t been, she might have shot him again right there, smug little bastard. Belatedly, she realized that a proper, caring soul might have been more concerned for the fact that Nappa could easily have been killed, but she’d never been all that forgiving of ugly men who tried to kill her. Now cute ones on the other hand, she thought, darting a sly glance at Vegeta from under her lowered lashes. He had crossed the room and was stepping gingerly over the blocks of dislodged concrete, chin in hand, examining the massive body of his subordinate.

                “Radditz, Gohan!” He called them over, and they were by his side in an instant. Bulma scoffed to herself, irritated that no one was paying attention to her anymore. “Take him to the medical bay and see that he is treated.”

                Radditz nodded once and stepped over to heft up the bigger man’s shoulders, while Gohan grasped him by the ankles. None too gently, they lifted his body and began to carry the half-conscious Nappa away, swinging like a hammock strung between two trees.

                “Waitaminnit.” Nappa slurred, his eyes cracked open like little black slits. “Why’m I the only one punished?”

                “Oh, you’re not.” Vegeta grinned evilly at his other two subordinates who’d stopped mid stride, backs ramrod straight despite the weight of their burden. “With no regeneration tank, someone will have to nurse poor Nappa back to health. The two of you will be at his beck and call until I deem him once more fit for service.”

                Bulma almost laughed at the identical looks of horror on Radditz and Gohan’s faces, as they grimaced down at the wounded man. “Can’t we just kill him, and be done with it?” Radditz moaned, but dutifully began walking backward, craning his neck around every few seconds to make sure that he wasn’t about to run into something. Gohan trudged along, surprisingly nimble with the added bulk of Nappa’s legs in his little hands.

                “Now,” Vegeta spun on his heel, turning back toward Bulma, “I believe you must have other toys to show me.”

                “No way, mister!” Bulma took a step back, clutching the drained weapon to her chest with both hands. Of course he’d know what other sick little treasures she’d been working on, spurred hard enough by the genius of the ideas to ignore the moral depravity that had been their inspiration. She thought mostly of the ki-draining headband, with its vicious screws, designed to bore through a man’s skull into his brain, and shuddered. No doubt he’d want to test _that_ , too.

                “I’ll be good, I promise.” The prince smiled wickedly, the tone of his voice telling her that he intended to be nothing but the opposite. Bulma shuddered, that slow slide of sound through her ears reminding her of all the naughty things she’d ever thought about him, and there were a lot. Absurdly, she recalled the night that Vengeance had asked her what colour her nipples were, and she wondered if he was just teasing her, or if he’d actually wanted to know.

                “Forgive me for doubting you,” she said dryly, forcing the memory down, “but I do believe you are full of shit.” She pushed her shoulders back, striving to appear as nonchalant as he, and did quite an admirable impression.

                “Maybe so, but wouldn’t you rather show me yourself, than have me break in?” Vegeta asked, not for the first time impressed by her bravado. Most creatures he knew would have given in to his demands with barely a peep, and here he was, trying to convince her to show him something he could easily go look at himself. He didn’t know why he cared...well, he did, actually, but it was something he was a little embarrassed to admit.

                It was her mouth, spitting sass and sarcasm at every turn. She was afraid of him, no doubt about it, but she seemed unwilling to let him know that. Ordinarily, such foolishness would have angered him, but her quick wit, delivered by those tauntingly plump, pink lips had him at somewhat of a disadvantage. Really, it made him want to fuck her brains out, to pound into her until those sweet lips screamed his name, cried for more, over and over again. It was always at the back of his brain, the desire especially vocal when she was near. The thought of her, spread on her back before him, begging him to take her, was almost too much to take, and he wondered when he’d become so absorbed in the fantasy.

                Truthfully, he hardly knew anything about her. He’d seen her only a handful of times, but he’d been fantasizing about her since that first moment, when she’d lain panting on top of him, tits in his face, warm legs wrapped around him. He couldn’t recall ever having been so aroused in his life, to think that the voice he knew as Blue, snarky, witty, enchanting bitch that she was, was so damned attractive. He hadn’t even known for sure, at first, but some part of his being had become invested in the idea that the genius voice that he was quickly becoming enamoured of, was equally physically attractive. He’d begun to fantasize about her even before meeting her, and didn’t like to think he’d one day be obligated to bone an ugly chick. Because really, he had to. Regardless of what she looked like, there was something there that had attracted him, and he simply had to have it.

                Lucky for him, he found her quite pretty.

                Even luckier for him, she seemed to return the sentiment.

*

*

                Chichi sat down beside her son, noting the way that his small body stiffened at her close proximity, his black eyes darting nervously away from her own gaze. He curled into himself like a little caterpillar, suddenly bereft of his cocoon. Her heart ached for the little boy she remembered, lost to this tiny warrior.

                “It’s very good to see you again, Gohan.” She said gently, folding her hands in her lap. They were alone in the room he shared with Radditz, the erstwhile uncle off tending to the big, rude one. She’d ambushed the child, truth be told, waiting patiently in her room down the hall until she heard the longhaired one go. Gohan had looked like a deer in headlights when he’d seen his mother appear in his doorway and she’d almost lost her nerve right there, but she’d gathered herself together and boldly crossed the threshold. Chichi had been called many things in her life, but cowardly was not one of them. She’d faced down wild animals, dinosaurs, and saved her father from a friggin’ burning mountain, for Kami’s sake! She was not backing down from an eight year old.

                Eight. She’d lost three precious years with her baby, and could see it plainly before her. His face had lost much of its roundness, his cheeks no longer chubby enough to pinch. And his hair! As a young woman, she’d always thought she wouldn’t have to contend with wild hair until he was at least a teenager. Covertly she looked him over, and sighed. Oh well. At least no tattoos or piercings...yet.

                “Is it?” He asked, quietly picking at the bedcover, still refusing to meet her eyes. She gasped, and it was her turn to stiffen with shock.

                “Was I such a bad mother then?” She forced herself to ask, her eyes pricking with the beginnings of tears. She was gratified to see his head pop up, finally meeting her damp eyes with his surprised ones. She shut her eyes against the wetness. “You’ve avoided me since you arrived.” Chichi choked out, pained at the admission.

                “I...” Gohan paused, thinking carefully about what to say next. “I wasn’t sure you would want to talk to me.”

                “Not want to...” Chichi started, uncomprehendingly. Then explosively, “Gohan, how could you ever think such a thing? You’re my _son_!” She’d turned so she faced him, her hands gripping small, surprisingly muscled shoulders, head bent low so she could look into his face.

                “Am I?” He asked, locking eyes with her. “Am I the son you remember? I...I don’t think so.” He shifted, breaking her hold on him, and resumed his picking at the blanket, and the simple action was like a rock in her belly. He was right, to a degree, Chichi realized. Her five year old would never have turned from her, but this eight year old stranger had done it without thought. In another life, she would have scolded him for ruining the bedclothes, but she felt she had no place to discipline this strong, scary little boy.

                “Your blood is _my_ blood.” Chichi said suddenly, fiercely. “You grew in _my_ belly, fed from _my_ body, and that makes you mine.” She went on, determinedly. “Regardless of who you are now.” When he didn’t say anything in reply, she let out a small sob, placing her hand on his head, feeling the thick, unruly hair slide between her fingers. He had Goku’s hair. “Please,” she begged, “talk to me. I don’t care what’s happened, Gohan, I only want to know my son again!” Her hand slid down the side of his head to cup his cheek in her hand, turning his head gently toward her. “Please.”

                Gohan breathed deeply and looked into his mother’s eyes, so full of sadness, and nodded. After the story, even if she never wanted to see him again, she would at least know what had become of her son.

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                Oooh, touching family moment! We’ll be jumping back in time again for chapter 14, so tune in next time!!

 


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Happy Thanksgiving to the Canucks in the audience. My turkey is roasting away right now. I’d share, if you were here. And as always, thank you so much to everyone who’s reviewed. Thank you so much for reading.

It’s been awhile since we jumped backwards in time. I figured we were due. Please note that this chapter contains some content that you may find disturbing. 

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TWO YEARS AGO

.

.

                Gohan sniffled and rubbed his running nose with the back of his bare hand. It was cold outside, what passed for winter here, he supposed, and his nose had long since lost feeling in the chilly air. Sniffing had become simply a reflex to the feeling of snot on his upper lip, though he was certain his nostrils were crusted with the stuff. He wiped the hand on his pants, not yet having overcome the aversion to snotty hands that his mother had instilled in him. He wished fervently for a pair of mittens or at least a long sleeve in lieu of a tissue, but neither was considered by the staff to be a necessary item.

                The boy shivered, having stood still long enough for the sweat to turn cold on his skin. He rubbed his arms, briskly, before bending down again to take hold of a tough stalk of _baida_ , a local root vegetable. He wrenched hard, pulling the woody thing up and out of the dirt, small clusters like tiny potatoes clinging to its roots. How baida grew in the cold, hard winter ground, he had no idea. He couldn’t recall harvesting any vegetables in the middle of winter on Earth, and his mother had tended a massive garden, somehow forcing the poor, abused soil to give her family what it needed to survive.

                Heaving a sigh, Gohan tossed the baida plant into his basket, shuffled two steps forward, and hunkered down to take hold of the next stalk. His hands were raw from the tough stems and chapped from the cold, but he knew that if he stopped or complained, trouble would be waiting for him. One of the newer boys had made that mistake, complaining brazenly about his cramped, sore hands, and had been beaten right there in the field, the other children forced to go about their work as though they couldn’t hear the bloodcurdling screams, nor the thump of fists on tender body parts. The girl working the row next to Gohan, Lilavi was her name, had remarked baldly on the chilly day, thankful that at least when the boy vomited, it wasn’t so hot as to bake the stink into the air.

                Gohan shrugged, covertly glancing back to see that the boy, whose name he did not know, had righted himself and gone back to work, lagging slowly behind his neighbours. Lilavi, however callous, was right. Cold puke smelled a heck of a lot better than hot puke, and it was all down the boy’s shirtfront. It was too cold out, laborious work notwithstanding, to take the shirt off, and of course there weren’t clean ones to spare. There wasn’t a lot of anything to spare at the orphanage, Gohan reflected.

                The “orphanage” wasn’t really an orphanage in the sense that Gohan had known them, but that was the closest translation that he could think of. It was a home for displaced children, but far from the caring surrogate he had imagined. It was rough. The children that lived there were not slaves, precisely, though they were essentially for sale to anyone who might be wishing to “adopt” them. What they became after that was up to the purchaser, which to be honest, was most likely to be some form of servitude.

                Inside the orphanage they were more like prisoners, bending to their captor’s will, doing all that was required of them, with the hopes of someday being released to a better life. It was a bleak and unlikely prospect, but some did make it. There were those still in Frieza’s universe with heart and generosity, and still more suffering souls, looking to replace a child lost to war. Some of the older, stronger children were bought up by military squadrons looking to fill out their ranks; a violent future, but a relatively free one, so long as such children could stomach the thought of serving the master who’d annihilated their home worlds.

                It was a sad fact that many could, in exchange for the illusion of autonomy. The orphanage was a violent place with its own internal government. There was a strict hierarchy which the staff not only tolerated, but encouraged. It made their jobs much easier if discipline was carried out without their ever having to step in. The stronger, meaner children, the ones who fantasized that they’d be adopted into Frieza’s forces, practiced for the future they imagined as highly positioned officers by beating the weaker children, the gentler souls, into submission.

                There were factions, of course. Such bullies were never satisfied with their position in the chain, always jockeying for more power, more influence. The staff betted regularly on which gangs would hold the upper hand; they watched with fascination the trades, the turncoats and the ever heaving, ever changing composition of groups, and delighted in watching the consequences unfold, like humans watching a television drama.

                Gohan himself had no aspirations toward any sort of leadership position in the constant gang-war that he lived in; he had no aspirations whatsoever, except to stay alive and avoid hurting anyone else while doing so, but he was not so lucky. His physical strength and intelligence had singled him out almost immediately upon arrival, and those that did not view him as a threat were quick to try and entice him into their circles. He’d thus far refused, making him both a popular target and a popular shield to those trying to do the same. He was known among the other children as a defender of the weak and willowy, of those too pathetic to stand up for themselves, and many of them hated him for that. He was a constant reminder that there had been no one to stand up for _them_ , during the destruction of their worlds. He was an uncomfortable oddity in a pattern of violence and hate.

                Despite his best efforts, Gohan had become a leader of sorts; how could he not have? His parents had taught him to always do the right and moral thing, and if that meant standing up for a bruised, bloody victim, then that was what he was going to do. Oftentimes it ended in two bruised and bloody victims rather than one, but Gohan felt that a few cuts and scrapes were worth it, if it meant doing the right thing. He hadn’t been banking on black eyes and broken bones, but in the end they, too, seemed a small price to pay. It didn’t hurt that the orphanage had a regeneration tank, either. Some of the other children, knowing how much such things cost, were surprised at the expense, but Gohan reasoned that damaged merchandise didn’t do anyone any good. They could get a high price for an experienced and relatively healthy young brawler. Let him die and all the money spent feeding him went to waste.

*

*

                Vegeta tapped his fingers on the desk, frowning at the correspondence he’d received. One of his contacts in low places – and he had many – had sent him a most interesting note, regarding the potential existence of a Saiyan child. The woman was unsure, but suspicious enough that she’d sent the letter, and those who knew the side of him that dealt in the underworld knew not to waste his time. Records stated that the boy was from Earth, where Kakarott had been sent. Was the child a Halfling? Was that even possible?

                Vegeta narrowed his eyes, glancing at the calendar. A year since Earth’s destruction, give or take a few months. Radditz had remembered the data on Earth; it was impossible for a human child of that age to have survived conditions like those he was certainly living in. Human cubs were especially vulnerable; soft, stupid little creatures who depended solely on their parents to rear them. Vegeta scoffed. A Saiyan baby was capable of taking care of itself from birth, and was often required to.

                The letter mentioned the tail, but also the brat’s unseemly disposition, which was the given excuse as to why Vegeta’s contact had delayed so long in telling him. Simply put, the boy _looked_ saiyan, but had the attitude of a pacifist monk. He championed the weaker children, the letter said, and in his earliest days with them, had cried constantly for his mother and father. Vegeta wondered if it was possible that the human side had ruined him. Even the strongest man, if he held no desire to fight, would be as useless in a brawl as a dead corpse; perhaps more useless still, as a live man often protests to the indignity of being used as a shield.

                The prince considered the situation carefully before calling his men and issuing the order to take flight. A weak, useless half-breed the brat might be, but if saiyan blood pumped through his veins, then there was no choice but to take him, even if he spent the rest of his life wasting away with that useless clod, Tarble. Vegeta’s brother, five years his junior and infinitely lower in power, had somehow been secreted away while Vegeta himself had been handed over to a sick madman, and it was no secret that Vegeta was more than a little bitter over the fact. This, coupled with the fact that Tarble was a pacifist weakling, meant that the brothers did not speak often, nor did the three ‘true’ saiyans speak of him much. They’d also kept the youngest saiyan royal a secret from Frieza – Vegeta hadn’t even known that his brother survived, save the secret knowledge that Nappa had been entrusted with on the eve of Vegetasei’s demise.

                Tarble lived his own life, peacefully sequestered in a galaxy yet untouched but the Cold Family’s rule, idly wasting his days with that strange little creature that was his wife. Vegeta was, in his weaker moments, a little jealous of that life, but he thought his brother a fool for failing to realize that his peace could not last. The Colds were greedy, power hungry sons of bitches, ever looking to expand their empires and unless they were stopped, the entire universe would fall beneath their scaly feet.  Now, the fact that Tarble suspected that Vegeta simply wanted to topple the tyrants in order to take their place was a moot point, of course.

*

*

                Gohan stood in the doorway with the orphanage worker’s legs pressed flat against his back, staring up at the three beasts who were going to ‘adopt’ him. “No.” He shook his head, bracing his arms against the doorframe as he resisted the worker’s attempts to shove him into the room. He could feel the wood splintering in his fingers, knew that it would give out soon and he would tumble forward onto the floor, laying on his belly at the mercy of these strangers, and finally gave up. He had his pride, at least.

                The worker tumbled forward, not having expected his charge to suddenly release his death grip on the walls, sending both of them into a flying heap anyway. Gohan’s nose hit the floor hard and he cried out as he felt the crunch of bone and the instant sickness that so often accompanies a broken limb. One of the monsters hauled the worker off him; Gohan wasn’t sure which one, as he was too busy curling into a miserable little ball, trying to stop the flow of tears as every sniffle sent a bolt of pain through his nose.

                “Oi,” One of them prodded him with a stiff finger. Gohan cracked an eye to see the long-haired one crouched down beside him. He felt faint: the man’s thighs were as big around as his whole body. “Shaab’a sorrin Rak?” Oh man. He must’ve hit his head harder than he’d thought.

                “He doesn’t speak any Saiyan?” The tallest one asked aloud in Standard, seeing the look of bewilderment on the child’s face.  

                “I’m beginning to doubt that he’s Saiyan at all.” The smallest one said, disgust audible in his voice. Gohan cringed, ashamed to be the target of such disdain, even though he’d no idea what a Saiyan was, or whether he even wanted to be one.

                “Hey brat,” the long-haired one poked him again. “You don’t understand?” Gohan shook his head. “I asked you what your name was.”

                “G...Gohan.” He replied, haltingly. The throbbing in his nose had dulled enough that he was able to focus on something other than the pain, and what he saw was very disturbing. The long haired man wasn’t his father, not even close but...but...

                “Gohan? What a shitty name.” The beast stood from his crouch and grinned down, baring sharp teeth. “Anyway, I’m Radditz. We’re pretty sure I’m your uncle.”

*

*

                Gohan couldn’t recall the details of the conversation following that wholly unexpected and completely undeniable statement, nor the conversation after that, nor the subsequent five or six, at least. He recalled the hotel where they’d stayed and the soft bed that he’d slept on – his first since the one in his Earth bedroom – and he remembered the pleasant ache of a fully belly and the subsequent attack of bowel shattering diarrhea that had resulted from stuffing himself after going malnourished for so long. Totally worth it.

                He knew what they’d told him and completely believed that it was the truth – he resembled Radditz quite strongly, there was no denying it – though when asked to recall how they’d broken the news and how he’d reacted, he could not say. He had a strong suspicion that he’d been quite numb throughout the ordeal, though if someone had told him that he’d thrown a screaming, kicking, biting fit he’d just as easily have believed t hat.

                It was a lot to take in, after all. His father was an alien, sent to massacre the people of Earth, and a lucky bump to the head, or so the three adult Saiyans surmised, had saved humanity from destruction...well, until Frieza’s arrival, at least. So that made him half-alien and a member of a dead race, well maybe not completely defunct yet but definitely in the throes as there were no known Saiyan females. The three adult males had been interested to learn that creating half-breeds was possible and even more interested to learn that Gohan suspected that at least some human females were alive to potentially breed with. He’d then had to explain to them the concept of boyfriends and husbands and why those females might not be so willing to breed. That conversation, he remembered. It had been awkward. None of them seemed to want ‘mates’ and Gohan didn’t suppose that his mother, Bulma, or Mrs. Briefs would be willing to breed half-Saiyans without some sort of romantic commitment.

                “Brat!” It was Radditz’s voice, coming through the com-link by his door. “Hurry the fuck up! Vegeta will be here any second and he’ll be pissed if we’re not ready to go!”

                “On my way!” Gohan squeaked, hurriedly stepping into his boots and clipping the scouter over his ear. He’d been with the Saiyans for two months now, time which they’d spent almost entirely at a small outpost on a planet called Farrad, reasonably close to Planet Yessig, where the orphanage had been. It still amazed Gohan that interstellar travel was so quick and easy. Why, he’d been on three different planets in the span of a year, plus a few space stations in between. In the five years he’d lived on Earth, he hadn’t even visited that many different towns!

                After nearly two months straight of training with Radditz and Nappa – which consisted mostly of getting beat up by said trainers – they were finally leaving Farrad. Vegeta had deemed him worthy of accompanying them on a mission, and boy was he excited. He did a quick double take in the mirror to make sure that his uniform was all in place before darting from the room, legs pumping with newfound strength to carry him to the loading bay. He grinned at the power in his muscles and knew that the training sessions had done the trick, even though he sometimes thought he’d spent more time in the regeneration tank than out since his arrival. He felt a hundred times stronger than he had at the orphanage and knew that there was only more power to be gained.

                Gohan turned the corner, neatly dodging a technician running a systems check, and skidded to a halt beside Radditz, who nodded in welcome. Gohan nodded back, quickly growing used to the ways in which his new ‘family’ interacted. They were not cuddly nor coddling, like his own parents had been. They rarely praised him and he’d been punched, kicked, and blasted by them more times than he could count, but there was some degree of affection there. More often than not he felt like a puppy in training – his new masters were lenient, but piss on the floor one too many times and it’s out the door. Radditz was his favourite, of course. Being an uncle seemed to have an effect on the weakest of the full-blooded Saiyans, and he was often quick to defend his nephew from Nappa, whose rearing tactics tended toward outright bullying. Gohan was treated like a foot soldier more than a child, and disobeying orders was not tolerated by the biggest Saiyan.

                Just in time, Gohan thought, as he heard the telltale sound of Vegeta’s boots on the floor. The man had a signature walk, military like a drum beat, when he wanted to be heard. When he didn’t, you’d hear nothing until his breath hit the back of your neck, and likely wouldn’t be alive long enough to hear much after that. Quickly, all three waiting Saiyans lined up and adopted the straight-backed military stance that was customary in Frieza’s army. Had they been alone, they would all have taken a knee in Saiyan fashion, but as it was, word would get back to the tyrant. The Saiyans were all kept under a close watch.

                Gohan hadn’t met Frieza yet, and he didn’t particularly want to. He knew the lizard king had been in charge of Earth’s execution. Joining his ranks had been hard enough, even knowing that the Saiyans had not been involved. Serving under Vegeta was somehow different than serving under Frieza, according to Radditz and Nappa, and Gohan was slowly coming to terms with the concept of it all. Looking back later in life, he would realize that the simple relief of having proper food and attentive guardians had overshadowed the more murky concerns of ethics and morality, but at the moment he was content. Funny what a fully belly will do for a man.

                “Ahh, good, you’re all here.” Vegeta said, in a voice that clearly stated what would have happened had they not been around. Gohan guessed that this meant the prince was in a bad mood, though it was hard to tell. Vegeta’s disposition could change rapidly and without warning. He was impossible to read and he had a poker face that made his thoughts about as easy to discern as a rock’s. Gohan never knew where he stood with the Vegeta, and that made him nervous. Radditz and Nappa were easy. If they were mad they yelled. If they were really mad, they booted him. Easy. Vegeta, on the other hand, was often at his most cordial when furious. A deadly calm would come over him, and the uninitiated man would think nothing of his sleight until he felt the burn of a blast through his heart. 

                “Sir, we are ready to deploy at your command.” Nappa spoke up, and Vegeta grunted, climbing into his own open pod.

                “We launch in two minutes.” Vegeta said, strapping in as the door hissed shut. “I recommend you get in your damn pods.”

*

*

                Gohan braced himself for impact as his pod careened toward the planet’s surface, and was surprised to find the jarring crash he expected did not materialize, despite the crater formed by his landing. He got out slowly, shielding his eyes against the dust cloud kicked up by Radditz’s pod, which hit the ground a few minutes later. He reached up and flicked his scouter on, locking immediately onto Vegeta’s power signature. The prince was a few hundred feet away, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for his men to gather. Nappa’s pod was the last to land, and while they waited for him, Gohan took the opportunity to look around. They were in a fairly isolated mountainous region; he couldn’t see any houses nearby, though he did spot what looked to be the entrance to a mining shaft, so he thought there must be people somewhere close.

                “What kind of mission is this?” Gohan asked, not having been briefed before take off. “What are we doing here?”

                “Purging, of course.” Radditz answered, cocking his head at the child as if to say _what else?_ and Gohan felt his stomach drop. Before he had a chance to ask any further questions, Nappa was climbing out of his pod and they were all in the air, Gohan’s lungs burning as he raced to keep up.

                Vegeta stopped abruptly over a small village and remained floating, as though standing on thin air, as he waited for the other three to catch up. They were at his side in a matter of seconds. “I will go into the center of this town,” he said, uncrossing his arms to point with two fingers, “Nappa, you will take the north end, Radditz the south. Drive all that you can toward me. Gohan, you will remain high to catch any who attempt to escape.” Without another word he dove, Nappa and Radditz quickly descending to follow, leaving Gohan all alone.

                He heard the first scream and felt bile rise in his throat, saw people pouring out of their homes as they attempted to escape the sudden barrage of heat and flames that had engulfed them. Vegeta was making quick work of his victims, if the falling buildings were any indication. He heard Nappa laugh and the scent of blood hit him, thick in the air. He swallowed the bile, watching wide eyed and frozen as a mother and her child ran for the woods, managing to bypass Radditz, who was distracted. That made them his job, did it not?

                Quickly, Gohan swooped down and followed them into the brush, his heart pounding and his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He was certain that he was crying – the tears grew quickly cold on his cheeks, whipped away in seconds as he sped along. They could hear him crashing through the trees and brush, for he could smell the sudden tang of panicked sweat as they stopped, scrabbling in the dirt for the secret hiding place. He landed behind them, his boots thumping on the hard-packed dirt path, and the woman turned and gasped. He was no older than her son, to be sure.

                “Please,” she begged, her halting standard indicating the lack of a chip. “Please don’t kill us.”

                “I...” Gohan stepped forward, and she shoved the boy behind her, shielding him with her own body. “I don’t want to kill you.” He whispered desperately, anguish in his voice. “Please go. Run!” He shooed her with his hands and she whirled, crouching once more to find the entryway she was searching for.

                “Leave us.” She said, confusion and apprehension on her face. The boy seemed sincere, but many of Frieza’s men had a reputation for cruelty that did not rule out toying with their prey. “We will hide.”

                “I...you need to get out of here. You need to get off this planet!” Gohan hissed, recalling in detail the way Earth had looked as it collapsed in upon itself, cracking and crumbling into nothing more than rocks and dust. He took two urgent steps toward her, but stopped himself as a look of abject terror spread itself across her pretty features. He gulped, realizing that her gaze did not rest upon him, but on something behind him, and turned to see Vegeta, standing leisurely in the path.

                “Well, well, well.” The prince sauntered forward.

                “Don’t kill them!” Gohan shouted, then snapped his mouth shut as he realized who he was talking to. He shrank back a little, fully expecting to be punished for such insolence. He was surprised to see Vegeta stop in his tracks.

                “Why not?” He asked simply, and Gohan swallowed.

                “They...they don’t deserve to die.” He whispered, knees shaking as Vegeta’s eyes bored into his.

                “Oh? And what horrible deeds have they committed that they deserve to live?” Vegeta had walked closer, and was examining the frightened pair. The woman was bold, she met his eyes as her son tried to bury himself within her skirts.

                “I...I don’t...understand.” Gohan stuttered, his muscles tense as Vegeta’s tail uncoiled to sway lazily behind him.

                “Think hard, cub.” Vegeta cocked his head and studied the woman, obviously looking her over. “What do you think happens to people who live, hmm? To women as pretty as this one?” He turned his gaze, unfeeling to Gohan. “And this boy-child, so small and tender still. They’ll be torn apart.” He snarled.

                “No...” Gohan whispered.

                “Yes.” Vegeta hissed. “You think always that life is better than death.” He advanced on the trembling young warrior, fists balled at his sides. “I can tell you, brat, you believe in pretty lies, painted by your sappy parents.”

                “No...it’s better to live, to fight and survive!”

                “For you, perhaps.” Vegeta countered. “For the strong, of course. But for the weak? For the ones who will be raped and beaten, and left to die in shame and misery? Who are you to take their deaths from them?”

                “I won’t kill her!” Gohan stamped his foot, bringing one arm up to wipe snot on his sleeve, and Vegeta sneered.

                “Such a pathetic little child. You shame your Saiyan blood.” The prince spat.

                “We can let her go!” Gohan pleaded.

                “To where?” Vegeta laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. “To be caught up by some soul less benevolent than you or I?” Gohan cringed, his stomach curdling at the idea of this murder as benevolence. “You would turn her loose and see her raped and killed?” Vegeta shook his head. “That is cruelty, boy.”

                “No...” Gohan repeated, unable to find any other words. He felt as though he was choking, sick with the knowledge that he would not be able to stop this from coming. “Let her live.”

                “Fine,” Vegeta shrugged, “come on then, girl, we’ll take you back to camp and let the other squads have at you.”

                “NO!” Gohan shouted, scrambling to put himself between Vegeta and the frightened pair.

                “If she lives, she goes back to camp.” Vegeta said, his voice iron. “It will be a better fate than to be cut down running by a pack soldiers rabid with bloodlust. The ones in camp will at least be calmer.” He said to the girl, by way of explanation. Gohan watched her consider this, nodding. She looked at her son, his sniffling face having emerged briefly from her skirts.

                “And him?” She asked, placing one hand on his head.

                “There are undoubtedly men there with such predilections. If he survives camp, he’s like to be conscripted.”

                “Well if it’s all the same to you then, I’d prefer you just kill us now.” She said, rather matter of factly, and squared her shoulders. “Though if I could have a moment?” Vegeta nodded as though he had all the time in the world, and she crouched down, murmuring to her son in a language they did not understand. When she stood again to face them, she nodded her readiness. “Well, go ahead then.”

                “Well?” Vegeta turned to Gohan, expectantly. “Go ahead.” He stared impassively back as Gohan turned wide, betrayed eyes upon him.

                “I can’t.”

                “Of course you can.” Vegeta rolled his eyes.

                “I won’t.”

                “Oh, you won’t?” Vegeta mocked his stuttering speech, his voice nasty. “Then don’t trust me to make it painless, boy. She wants a clean death; you’ll give it to her, or you’ll watch her suffer.”

                “N..no...I...I...” Gohan sniffled, tears pouring from his eyes now. He wiped them just in time to see Vegeta shrug and stalk toward the pair. Roughly, he shoved the woman to the ground, twisting her arm behind her till she cried out with pain. “Please!” Gohan cried, and Vegeta released the pressure a little bit.

                “Last chance, boy. I’ll break every bone in her body before I put her out of her misery, and I’ll do the same to her spawn.”

                “It’s okay.” The woman said gently, her pleading eyes catching Gohan’s. “I’ll forgive you.” She said, and Gohan found himself nodding, numbly. Vegeta stepped back and Gohan stood for a moment, gathering his power. It was cruel to force her to live, wasn’t it? It was cruel to force her to die of brutality, when he could give her quick, clean salvation. That’s what Vegeta said, and she was agreeing, wasn’t she? Did that make it okay? He felt sick. He felt wrong and evil and sick to his stomach, and before he knew it, he was bent against a tree for support, heaving his guts out. When he was finished, the woman gave him a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe his mouth.

                “What are your names?” Gohan asked, awkwardly pocketing the soiled cloth.

                “Oh, him? He doesn’t have a name yet.” She smiled kindly, then explained further, seeing his puzzled look. “We don’t get names until our fifth years. This one is just beyond four.” Gohan swallowed, sickly. Not even as old as he’d been, when Earth was destroyed. “And me, I’m Pan.”

                “Pan...” Gohan nodded, committing her face to memory. “That’s a nice name. I’ll remember it.”

                “Please do.” She said, and fell silent as he powered up. Her death was quick and clean, as was her son’s. The fact that Gohan took out half of the forest while doing it had no effect on Pan or her nameless child, but it sure made the young Saiyan feel better.

                When it was done, Gohan stood shaking in the middle of the clearing he had made, panting and trying very hard not to vomit again. He turned, feeling Vegeta’s presence next to him, and looked up as the prince placed his hand on the young warrior’s shoulder. Quickly, before Gohan could react, Vegeta jerked his knee upward, connecting squarely with the boy’s gut and knocking the wind out of him. Red faced and wheezing, Gohan fell to the ground at Vegeta’s feet, his arms curled protectively around his middle as though expecting another blow.

                “Don’t fucking disobey me again.” Vegeta snarled, turning on his heel and stalking away, not sparing another glance for the boy who lay writhing in the dirt.

*

*

                “He hasn’t eaten anything for three days.” Radditz growled as he threw the dish into the sink. It shattered, sending globs of congealed stew to splatter the wall and counter. He’d just been to see Gohan, only to find the child still laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the day’s worth of untouched food slowly rotting on his bedside table. “Goddamned waste, is what this is!” Radditz gestured explosively at the unsightly splatter as a hunk of meat slid down the wall to land with a wet plop on the counter. Nappa frowned worriedly. It was a bad sign when a Saiyan – half breed or not – was refusing food. “All he did was kill some bitch and her brat. No reason to go comatose on us!” Radditz was pacing now, obviously concerned beneath his frustration.

                They were in their own private apartments aboard one of Frieza’s transport ships, they and their pods having been safely picked up and stowed after the purge was complete. Word of Gohan’s existence had gotten back to the tyrant, and they’d been summoned to his home base so that the boy could be properly inspected and scrutinized.

                “When we are finished with Frieza,” Vegeta spoke up between bites of his meal, “we will send the boy to Tarble, and falsify a death report. His human blood has obviously tainted him.”

                “But,” Radditz stopped himself at Vegeta’s glare. He was getting used to having the kid around; with Gohan there, Radditz wasn’t the weakest one anymore.

                “He will go to Tarble.” Vegeta repeated, steel in his voice. “And we will carry on as though he never existed.”

*

*

                In the end, this plan did not pan out, for Frieza’s intervention proved a powerful turning point to the young half-Saiyan. He stayed quite silent during the month of travel aboard the transport ship, listlessly participating in whatever training or lessons he was required. At first, he’d belligerently refused to cooperate with his superiors’ orders, but a vicious ass-kicking from an irritated Vegeta had left him with a three-day soak in the regeneration tank, and a brand new outlook on standing up for one’s beliefs. If they would only just kill him, it would be alright, he often thought, but instead they revived him every time, prolonged his suffering.

                “Remember Gohan, just shut up unless he asks you a question. Stay quiet.” Radditz said under his breath to the boy in front of him. They were making their way toward the control room, Frieza’s seat at the top of the universe, and it was clear to the young Halfling that the three full-bloods were extremely agitated by the prospect of seeing their overlord.

                “The brat, be quiet?” Nappa snorted, looking backward over his shoulder at Radditz to roll his eyes. “Never.” He faced forward again, dutifully following behind their leader. Vegeta, stalking purposefully down the hallways in the lead of their little conga line, had said nothing all morning, easily having communicated his every desire with a few well executed glares. The message was clear: _Stay down, shut up, I’ll handle it_.

                Frankly, Gohan was a little surprised at the prince’s attitude. He’d always thought of Vegeta as the fearless one, the all powerful master of the little universe that the four of them existed in. To see him so irritated and twitchy was actually a little bit frightening. Gohan was not looking forward to meeting the man who could unnerve the stoic Vegeta. As it turned out, upon first sighting the lizard tyrant, ‘man’ was perhaps not the right word. The other Saiyans referred always to it as ‘him’ or ‘he’, and they saluted and addressed him as ‘my Lord’ but Gohan was not convinced.

                “Tell me again, how you found him?” Frieza was saying, and Gohan found himself drifting away as Vegeta answered. His heart was hammering so heard in his chest, he found it difficult to concentrate on much else. Lub-a-dub, lub-a-dub, lub-a-dub. On it went and he grimaced, pained as though it was slamming back and forth inside him. He began to sweat, his palms slick and tingly with growing heat, despite the fact that he could see his breath in the air. His shoulders began to shake, though he was not shivering. A bubbled formed in his belly, and like gas it travelled upward, pushed up with all its might, swelling the young boy’s esophagus as it did so, trapped briefly behind clamped lips before it burst outward in a rush of sound.

                “MURDERER!” Gohan screamed, unable to stop the rush of words that followed in the silence of his outburst. “You filthy murderer!” He was stepping forward before he knew it, shaking off Radditz’s belated attempts to restrain him. “You destroyed Earth! You killed everyone!” Tears streamed down his face and he had the oddest sensation of disconnection from his body, as though he were in a dream, watching as he flung himself at the pale-skinned creature, howling with all his might. There was glory in that moment, that release of so much pent up hate and anger, but it was short lived, as most such moments are. The diminutive emperor’s face grew sour, black lips twisting downward in an ugly grimace as he stretched an arm out to deflect the path of the little living missile, sending Gohan crashing bodily into the icy metal wall. It was then that Gohan felt himself returned to his body, reunited with his senses by the pain of a cracked skull and a dislocated shoulder. Had the beast been prepared, the damage would have been much worse. Fuzzily, he watched the lizard step down from his floating throne – shorter than expected – and shuddered at the click of tri-clawed feet on the floor panels. His death was coming, and the thought did not seem so appealing as it had once been.

                “Frieza.” Vegeta’s voice cut through the icy air, stopping the lizard in his tracks. Frieza turned and waited as Vegeta stepped forward, inclined his head in that almost-but-not-quite-respectful manner of his and said, “I believe I reserve the right to the punishment of my troops, according to our agreement.”

                Frieza smiled, that sickly sweet abomination that was his expression of happiness, and took a step back from the trembling child. “Of course,” he said slowly, drawing his words out as though he was savouring each one, reluctant to let the taste of it fade from his mouth. “How could I forget?” He advanced upon Vegeta, thick pink tail dragging across the floor like some obscene rodent’s appendage. His grin widened, and through the mud in his brain, Gohan watched the creature’s hand fly up to slap the prince full across the face, hair whipping as his head snapped sideways. Vegeta didn’t make a sound as he brought one hand up and wiped it across the back of his mouth, blood staining his pristine white glove.

                “Get up.” Radditz was suddenly there, hauling Gohan to his feet and dragging him back to where Nappa still stood, silent and ramrod straight. Gohan struggled to stand upright, dizziness making the room spin. He was certain he had a concussion, though neither of his kinsmen seemed to care in the slightest.

                “Open your eyes.” Nappa commanded and Gohan blinked, unaware that he had closed them. He turned to watch as Vegeta was slammed into the floor, his head bouncing off the metal tiles like a doll’s. Gohan closed his eyes and tried to turn away, only to be grabbed and swung roughly back into place by his uncle. “You will understand the consequences of your actions.” Nappa hissed. Gohan squirmed, feeling bile rise as he heard the sickening crack of bone, the squelching sound of torn flesh. Radditz let out a growl and clamped Gohan tightly to his chest, forcing the boy to face the brutality. Nappa’s fingers pulled mercilessly at his eyelids from behind, forcing them open so far he literally could not blink. He sobbed and wriggled, desperately trying not to watch as Frieza pushed down on Vegeta’s broken leg, slowly forcing broken bone to tear its way through to open air. Gohan gagged and vomited, the thin contents of his stomach left to dribble down his chin, dripping onto an uncaring Radditz’s bare arm. The smell was enough to make him want to vomit again, but both of his Saiyan tormentors stood like rocks, eyes focused on the bloody, broken mess that was being made of their prince.

                Gohan didn’t understand it. He’d seen people beaten and killed, he’d seen crowds boil with the urge to tear someone apart, but never had he seen such methodical cruelty, such cold eagerness to cause pain. And yet Vegeta refused to scream, a fact which seemed to make the sadistic beast more frustrated, more cruel with every movement, determined to draw sound beyond the prince’s laboured breaths.

                He felt Radditz’s arms tighten around him, the tension in his uncle’s frame belying the calm expression on his face. Was it the same for Nappa, Gohan wondered as Frieza raised one foot, aiming a kick to the prince’s jaw that sent a tooth flying, landing with a plink to skitter across the floor, slick with blood. “Have you had enough?!” Frieza shrieked, fury radiating from his every muscle, all tense and shaking with the strain of control. Vegeta looked impassively back, the right side of his jaw already purple and beginning to swell, likely shattered. “You fucking piece of trash! Monkey!” He shouted, nasal voice growing higher and higher. He kicked again, this time aiming for the ribs. Vegeta wheezed and gurgled as a broken rib punctured his lung, the tender organ quickly filling with blood. He hacked and coughed and Frieza stepped back, disgusted with the body on the floor at his feet.

                “Get him out of here before he drowns.” The lizard ordered, deigning to look at the other two adult Saiyans for the first time since they’d entered the room. “And take that fucking tooth with you.”

*

*

                Radditz and Nappa had beaten him, of course, after seeing Vegeta safely ensconced within the protective womb of a regeneration tank. Gohan had barely recognized the prince’s face, bruised and blotched as it was. His jaw was a mottled, swollen black, and his nose had been neatly smashed so that it was no more than a lump of pulpy flesh. A clump of his hair was gone from the right side of his head, just above his temple. His left femur had been snapped in half, jagged bone gleaming whitely before the med tech had forced it back beneath torn flesh, attempting to reset the alignment before depositing the broken body into the tank. His right ankle and foot were crushed. His lungs were badly torn from the jagged ends of broken ribs, and the staff in the medical bay would have been surprised to see him draw breath, had they not been witness to the same scene many times before.

                Willingly, numbly, knowing what was to come, Gohan had followed his kin to the training rooms of the mothership where they’d gone at him with all they had. He’d let it come, though he’d been nowhere near as stoic and prideful as his prince. He’d howled and bawled, he’d fought back, kicking and biting and punching till the end, but facing down two full-grown, angry Saiyans had been a task doomed to fail from the start. At the time, he’d thought that perhaps they meant to kill him.

                When it was over, when he was hovering on the brink of unconsciousness, gentle arms scooped him up, cradling him as though he were but a baby. Radditz carried him to the medical bay where the two of them scared away the technicians, instead leaning in to hook him up themselves, Nappa murmuring quiet direction.

                “Do you understand all this?” He asked, as he slipped the breathing mask over Gohan’s head, carefully tightening its straps. “Do you get it now?”

                Gohan nodded. He thought he did, at least.

                “Vegeta is our saviour.” Radditz insisted, his voice quiet but firm. “In this world where we live as slaves, he is our shield and our sword. We must be the hands that hold them, the arms that support them.” Gohan nodded again. “You will obey him?” Another nod.

                “He will ask you to kill again.” Nappa said, gravely. Gohan closed his eyes tight, trying to quell the tears that squeezed out from between tightly shut eyelids. When he opened them again, both his uncle and his tutor were staring back, rather than the beasts of punishment that they had been. Unable to speak, he brought his right hand slowly across his chest, mindful of the tubes and wires connected to his skin, and fisted his hand over his heart. Nappa nodded back, satisfied, and swung the glass bubble down in place, cutting off all sound between them. He and Radditz stood together, watching as their young charge was slowly submerged in the cold, thick jelly that would heal his wounds.

                He would not be going to Tarble after all.

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Writing this chapter was difficult. I’m sure you can imagine why. I’m not entirely sure that it’s what I imagined, but I think I’ve stared at it long enough. Please let me know what you thought. I would love some feedback.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: I’d like to apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I was quite busy making costumes so I didn’t have much time to write in the lead up to Halloween. Thanks for your patience!

 Back to the present, my friends. Chronologically, this chapter takes place directly after chapter 13. Also thanks for the feedback on Chapter 14. Everyone loves hearing about bowel-shattering diarrhea.

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PRESENT DAY

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                “Vegeta told me once, much later, that death can be salvation.” Gohan clasped his hands in his lap and stared, unseeing, at the floor. He was surprised that his voice was so steady, while he felt his insides tremble and shake. “At the time I thought he was simply trying to offer some kind of consolation, but...well it took me a long time to realize that Vegeta isn’t that kind of guy.” An off-kilter grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he had to stop himself from laughing at his own naiveté, for fear of what his mother might think of giggling at such a time. “Saiyans believe in the salvation of an honourable death; a quick death in battle or a slow decline after a long and glorious life, but to have one’s death muddied by the shame of slow torture, to die with a weak soul , with no pride, is a great fear of theirs...of mine now too, I suppose.”

                “So if you’d let that woman and her son live...” Chichi trailed off, not really sure how to phrase her thoughts. She didn’t want to think about that monster, forcing her son to murder a helpless woman. Her poor little baby; he’d have been six, possibly approaching seven. She couldn’t be sure; his timeline was vague. She remembered the sweet, shy little boy he’d been, wearing the cute dragonball hat that she’d made for him, and felt pain rip through her at the loss of that child.

                “They aren’t the only ones, you know.” Gohan said, his voice suddenly sharp, as though to prove to her he was beyond her reach. “I’ve killed others.” This was said defiantly, daring her to turn away as he was sure she would. “And if you think that I’ll go the rest of my life without ever doing it again, I’m sure you’re wrong.” He looked at her then, his eyes burning with the intensity of his words. He did not like to harm, to kill, she was sure of it, but he would do it nonetheless, in service of that black demon he called Prince.

                “Why?” She asked, meeting his gaze with her own trembling one.

                “Because sometimes it is necessary. There is no triumph without suffering. Frieza must be destroyed, and if we must damn ourselves to do it, then gladly will we make Vegeta the King of Hell.” Chichi watched as her son balled his fists, pressing them against hard thighs. The muscles in his arms flexed and bulged with effort, as though he would burst into flames if he dared to move. The way the air seemed to sizzle around him, she thought it a very real possibility.

                “You would do it all again, then?”

                “I would.” Gohan answered, without hesitation. “I don’t expect you to understand it, mother.” He said, a little more softly. “But my place is with them. I realized that the moment Vegeta stepped up to face Frieza. I trembled like a baby and didn’t say anything when he took the pain that was meant to be mine, and yet he did not really do it for me...not really. Vegeta is...I don’t know how to describe it.” Gohan paused with a sigh and a shrug. “He is the legendary. Radditz once told me that he is our sword and our shield; it is his duty to protect us and to destroy our enemies, but it is ours to hold him up. If I must bloody my hands to do so, then I will.”

                “I...” Chichi paused. “I won’t lie to you Gohan, I wished a different life for you.” She put her hand on his shoulder, “And I don’t approve of any of this,” she squeezed, “but I will always be your mother, and I will always love you.” She reached over, forcibly pulling her reluctant son into an awkward hug. Letting him go, she straightened up and smoothed out her clothes, trying to adopt some facade of nonchalance, even while her heart was breaking. She felt that if she let him know how upsetting it all was, she might just lose him forever. “But you’d better know mister, that I’m going to have a talk with those nasty saiyans about what is and is not appropriate!” She shook her finger at him, reminding him of the old days, and he smiled a little.

                “Don’t be too hard on them mom.” He scooted off the bed and stood as well. “I...I think they wished a different life for themselves, too.” Chichi nodded with great effort and patted him on the head as she had done when he was young, before making to leave. Just as she was going through the doorway though, she stopped and turned back to see him watching her.

                “I’ve never killed anything more than an animal.” She said, frankly, clutching the doorjamb with both hands, trusting its strength to hold her up. “And I never thought much of killing for food. Killing for other reasons...I suppose it isn’t so far a stretch if it ensures your survival. I just wondered,” her eyes darted to the ground, hesitating, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. “How do you deal with it?”

                Gohan smiled, a little sadly, and thought for a moment. He’d known this would be hard on her, but he hadn’t quite realized the toll it would take on his own mind. He felt as though dozens of tiny cracks had spread through him, so fragile that even the gentlest bump could shatter him. “I remember their faces, you know. I think perhaps that is why Frieza’s soldiers are so fond of killing from a distance. Sometimes when I close my eyes and see them there, I think the knowledge of what I have done will crush me.” He was looking at his hands, drifting away in memory. “But,” he said, forcibly snapping himself back into the present and looking at the other bed in the room, “I know that I am not the only one to be haunted by such memories, and it gives me comfort.”

                Chichi nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you,” she said, not sure she understood his sentiment or conviction, but pleased and comforted that while her son, her baby, was a killer, he was not without remorse. She had not borne a monster, and that was enough for her.

*

*

                “Oh, for the love of Kami, Vegeta, will you quit staring?” Bulma slammed the ki-imitating rifle down on her workbench and glared at him. He’d followed her into the lab after that awful scene with Nappa and perched on the stool right across the table from her, his dark eyes following her every movement.

                “I am not staring at _you_ , woman.” He snapped, sneering at her as though she were the ugliest creature he’d ever seen. It was a look she’d never received in her life before meeting the arrogant prince, and a testament to his temperament that she was quickly growing used to it.

                “I never implied that you _were_!” She shot back, pleased with herself. “But I can’t get a damn thing done with you watching me like a hawk! Look, my hands are shaking! You make me nervous, which is not a good thing to be when working with such a volatile device!”

                “There is no charge in it.”

                “Ugh, are you stupid, or just slow to catch on? The core is still dangerous without any charge.” She glared and he shrugged, leaning forward to look at the little cylinder she was pointing to, its muted glow illuminating the tip of the screwdriver in her hand. “Ugh, no wonder no one’s caught on to you. Vengeance seems a lot smarter.” She muttered, carefully leaning in to extract one of the tiny screws holding the core in place. The Saiyan’s frown deepened, but he chose to ignore her remark for the time being.

                “What are you doing to it?” Vegeta sat back and allowed her the space to work, though he still continued to watch her every move.

                “Like you said, it ran out of charge too quickly. I can’t make the core stronger without increasing its size, but I can try and reduce the resistance in the circuits so that they don’t eat up as much power. I hope to make it more efficient so it doesn’t drain the core as quickly.” Vegeta hummed his understanding, and despite her best intentions to ignore him, her curiosity was piqued. “Did you look at the blueprints for this thing?” Bulma asked, not looking up as she plucked a pair of padded forceps from the table beside her and slipped the glowing little cylinder from its brackets. He hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t staring at her. He’d glanced at her – a lot – that was for sure, but mostly he’d watched her hands as they carefully disassembled the rifle. She could also tell he was reading the notes that she jotted down, his eyebrows knitting together every so often with the effort of deciphering her scrawl upside-down.

                “I have studied the schematics quite extensively, yes.” He answered, his tone matter of fact. “Is it really so volatile?” He asked, gesturing at the secure case that she tucked the core into, before closing and locking it away.

                “Yes, this little baby could blow us all to smithereens if it’s not handled carefully.” She grimaced at the black case. “Yet another drawback to overcome. I doubt anyone will have the chance to be concerned about shaking it up too much, in the heat of battle. I’d like to make it more stable, as well.” She stood and carried the case to the secure vault that she kept her most dangerous experiments in. After the debacle with Roshi, Oolong and the GRAV system three years ago, she wasn’t taking any chances. Their mistake had saved them all from Earth’s destruction, yes, but no way in hell was blowing up the station going to be good for anyone. “I’m a little surprised that Frieza’s scientists didn’t bother to stabilize the core before designing the gun. The way it is now, it would do more damage than good in the average man’s hands.”

                “The safety and comfort of his foot soldiers was never high on Frieza’s priority list.” Vegeta pointed out, amused by the dark look that crossed her face. “To catch one strong enemy, he’d gladly sacrifice a thousand weak subordinates.”

                “That’s awful.” Bulma sat back down, frowning at Vegeta’s disinterested tone.

                “That is what we are dealing with.” The Saiyan shrugged, uncaring, and more than a little irritated with her. “Condemning his depravity amongst ourselves will do nothing to change it, so what does it matter if Frieza is sick or simply oblivious? The goal is the same.”

                “Do you have to be so pragmatic?” Bulma huffed. “It’s hard to trust you when things like this don’t bother you at all.”

                “Do you have to be so emotional?” Vegeta shot back. “How can I trust you, knowing your sentimental little heart rules your pathetic brain?”

                “Pfft, pathetic?” She shook her screwdriver at him. “Just over an hour ago, you were calling me a genius.”

                “Momentary insanity.” Vegeta rolled his eyes as she stuck her tongue out at him, before returning her focus to the disassembled device in front of her.

                “So,” she changed the subject after a moment of silence passed between them, her earlier curiosity having returned. “You said you looked at the blueprints. How much did you understand?” She was blushing a little bit as she asked the question; for her, asking a good-looking man to display his intelligence was like asking him to take off his shirt. She carefully avoided eye contact by pretending to be absorbed in the details of her notes, turning her face down toward the papers to hide her flushed cheeks.

                “I understood much of what was written.” Vegeta said, frowning at her. Was she trying to insult him? He didn’t think so; he couldn’t detect any malicious intent in her voice, though her scent suddenly belied a nervousness she strove not to show. “The finer details pertaining to the core were more difficult.” He admitted, not liking the flash of disappointment that crossed her features. “I have not had much time with them. I am certain that I would understand, given more time to study the diagrams and notes.”

                Bulma shook her head. “There’s a lot of complex science here, and the notes aren’t complete. They’re meant for people who already have the knowledge base to work with. There are gaps in the calculations that even my father and I struggled to fill in.” She sighed; there would be no passionate discussions of physics lasting long into the night. Then she brightened. “But the fact that you understood most of this is impressive enough.” She gestured to the scattered parts that littered the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really wasn’t expecting it.” He raised an eyebrow at her, and she struggled to explain herself. “I...you know, most people wouldn’t.”

                Vegeta cracked a smile, well a smirk, really, and she realized she’d been played. “It doesn’t hurt to keep something up one’s sleeve, so to speak.” Vegeta shrugged and shifted his gaze from her red face to the scattered papers around them. “These aren’t all for the gun, are they?” he asked, “What else have you got in here?”

                “Hey, hey, don’t!” Bulma shrieked, reaching to bat his hand away as he rifled through one of the piles. “You’ll mess everything up!”

                “It’s already a mess, from what I can see.”

                “Ugh, I have a _system_ , Vegeta.” Bulma rolled her eyes and made to snatch the sheaf of papers he held. He moved too quickly for her, and she missed, half-falling over the table. “Give those back.”

                “What is this?” Vegeta had stopped smirking and was staring intently at the blueprints drawn on the first page. When she didn’t respond, he flipped to the next page, eyebrows lowering in thought as he skimmed through the notes written there.

                “It’s something that dad and I have been working on.” Bulma shrugged, reaching again. “No big deal.

                “But this is...” he dodged her grasp again. “This is...” he looked over at her. “If I had this at my disposal, I could be strong enough to defeat Frieza in no time!” He shoved the papers at her. “Build it.”

                “What? No, I’ve got other projects.” She took the blueprints back and turned away to file them. “Besides, the gravity chamber is still in the planning stages. There’s easily months of work left to be done before we begin constructing a prototype, and no telling what sort of problems we’ll encounter before perfecting it for use.”

                “Ugh, woman, how hard can it be? You’ve already got artificial gravity systems on this station; your only task would be to increase the level of that gravity.” Vegeta crossed his arms across his chest, the tip of his tail twitching where it lay curled about his waist.

                “ _And_ figure out how to keep the high gravity contained to one portion of the ship, _and_ build a room strong enough to withstand the increased pressure, _and_ design some fail-safes to ensure that it doesn’t go overboard, _and_ a million other things.”

                “If you build it, I’ll buy you another regeneration tank.” Vegeta said, watching as her eyes bulged.

                “Like you could afford that!” She snorted, but he could see that the idea had taken hold in her mind.

                “You have no idea what I can afford.” Vegeta said flippantly.

                “You owe us one, anyway.” Bulma countered, “Since you broke ours beyond repair.”

                “That was your fault, as I recall it.” Vegeta snapped, unhappy to be reminded of that embarrassing and altogether too revealing event. “Anyway I’m not going to argue with you. Take it or leave it.”

                “Fine, deal.” Bulma said, but was quick to add her own conditions. “But the GR stays here where I can monitor it, and you be careful with it. If it breaks while on the station, you could be putting us all in danger.”

                “Isn’t that what fail-safes are for?” Vegeta rolled his eyes, but his tail had uncoiled and was swaying lazily behind him, a clear indication of his pleasure at having gotten what he wanted. “When will it be complete?”

                “I don’t know.” Bulma shrugged. “Probably a few months at least. And that’s if I shelve all my other projects and-”

                “Do it.” He cut her off, ignoring the frown that claimed her pretty lips.

*

*

“Ugh, Roshi, you know Bulma and Chichi will kill us if we don’t get _everything_ on this list.” Oolong complained, watching his old friend bypass the ‘feminine hygiene’ aisle. Who would have thought they’d have tampons in space?

                “You go get that stuff then.” Master Roshi wheeled the squeaky cart around the corner with some difficulty. The right front wheel was sticky and had to be carefully coaxed into turning. Oolong grimaced, looking once more with pained eyes at the list. Max-flow tampons and ultra-thin pads WITH WINGS. It was written just like that, in red ink, capitals and everything. What the fuck were wings, he wondered, his little piggy ears trembling with trepidation. Sure, he liked the vag, but he’d carefully avoided gaining any more knowledge about that sinister time of the month as possible.

                Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Oolong edged carefully into the aisle. “To boldly go...” he muttered, bitterly thinking that this whole trip to space had been a waste. Sure, if he’d stayed on Earth he’d likely have been blown to smithereens, but at least he wouldn’t be in this situation, wheeling a cart around with Roshi in some intergalactic supermarket, staring at a wall of shudder-inducing packages, promising all sorts of lovely, blood-related sentiments. God, why were there so many? He scanned the packages, desperately searching for what the women had written down, nervous sweat rolling down his forehead. If he’d only known what was written on the list, he’d never have volunteered to do the shopping. He’d only agreed in the first place in order to escape the station for just a little while, to get away from those damn Saiyans and their endless muscles. They all reeked of testosterone and masculinity, and Oolong had felt the need to get away from the sausage party for a little while. They really needed more chicks on Red Station. Maybe they could score some hotties in the veggie aisle, he mused.

                “Hurry up in there!” Roshi shouted from the end of the aisle, breaking Oolong from his reverie. The pig snorted and hurriedly grabbed the first acceptable package he saw, trying to avoid reading about its promise of freshness as he hurried back toward Roshi and buried it in the cart under a few bags of chips.

                “What’s next?” He asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

                “Meat.” Roshi replied, grimacing at the amounts Chichi had written down. The saiyans had been on Red Station for a little under a week, and they’d already managed to consume a month’s worth of supplies. No one knew when they were leaving; Vegeta was vague about it when pressed, and Bulma, de facto head of Red Station since Gero didn’t seem to give two shits, didn’t seem in any hurry to kick them out. She almost seemed to enjoy their presence, odd as it seemed! Women were strange creatures. Seeing Gohan was good though, Roshi supposed, despite the fact that he’d become a frighteningly strong little half-alien in his absence, and they didn’t really know where his allegiances lay. He’d attacked the uncle to save his mother, yes, but beyond that he obeyed orders to a fault.

                “Damn Saiyans,” Oolong muttered as he hefted a shank into their cart. “I would be seven hundred pounds if I ate they way they did.”

                “Pfft, did you see the big one?” Roshi shook his head as he gathered up several packages of ground meat. “I bet you he weighs eight hundred, as is!”

                “Weird that he listens to that little guy.” Oolong shook his head.

                “That’s because that little guy could crush him like a bug.” Roshi said, the seriousness of his tone surprising. “He doesn’t look like much, but his power level is amazing. I nearly shat my pants when I felt it the first time. Even injured, he could have beat Goku in a heartbeat.”

                “Speakin’ a Goku,” Oolong hesitated, “Since Gohan is alive...maybe ya think...?”

                “That Goku is too?” Roshi smiled at the memory of his best student. “I think it is likely. That boy was tough. I feel like I would know it, if he had died.”

                Oolong nodded, his ears flapping against his head. “I think so too.” He said, firmly, as though that would make it true. “Now what’s next?” He asked, changing the subject.

                “Three tins of Glorax’s Sprigot Powder, and that’s the last of it.”

*

*

                Puar edged carefully toward the open door, his back to the wall. The big bald Saiyan rested inside, shit-eating grin on his face as Radditz grudgingly changed his bandages.

                “Oh, Radditz,” Nappa cooed, mockingly, “you missed a spot.” He wriggled his toes, pointing with one finger down at a speck of blood that had been missed by the alcohol wipe. Radditz rolled his eyes and reached for another of the disposable cloths, seriously wondering if Nappa was weakened enough that he could possibly take the big Saiyan out without much of a fight. His fingers itched to wrap around that beefy neck and choke the life out of the smug bastard. “And I’m out of pudding.” Nappa grinned at the low growl that rumbled unbidden from Radditz’s chest. The oaf was enjoying it a little too much.

                “I’ll cut out your tongue, I swear it.” Radditz grumbled, viciously tightening the bandage he’d been wrapping around a nasty burn on Nappa’s leg before having been interrupted. “Let’s see you enjoy your fucking pudding when you haven’t got any taste buds left.”

                “I think you’re supposed to be playing nursemaid, Radditz, not butcher.” Nappa grunted at the tight pinch of fabric around his calf. “Did you forget Vegeta’s orders?”

                “What will he care if I cut out your tongue, so long as I dress the wound after? I’m sure Vegeta would promote me, to shut you up for good.”

                Puar peeked around the doorframe to watch Radditz work, the bare muscles of his arms bunching and flexing ever so slightly as he tied off the clean cotton bandage that protected Nappa’s leg-wound from exposure. The room reeked of blood and alcohol, sharp scents which overlaid the more earthy musk of Saiyan skin, a scent Puar remembered well. He shivered as tingle racing up his spine at the memories of his one night with the beast.

                _What am I doing?_ He wondered, his eyes tracing the contours of Radditz’s thighs; he remembered pulling one of those red bands off with his teeth. _I shouldn’t be here_ , he told himself, all the while unable to move. All he wanted was the chance to look at the Saiyan, to add fuel to his hazy, semi-drunken memories of their one night together. It was pathetic, he knew, and reeked strongly of a teenaged crush, but he couldn’t help it; he was downright infatuated. Had he been more confident, he’d have changed into “other” Puar right at that moment and strolled on in, but he simply wasn’t. He’d taken that form a few times since talking to Bulma and his friends had been supportive and even excited at the idea of a secondary form, but beyond that he hadn’t really shared much information with anyone else. He was pretty sure that before appearing before them as the human-shaped Puar, most of his friends probably thought of him as pretty sexless. The shock of his looks had been enough, he thought, to set their heads spinning. Being willingly mauled by Radditz in the hallway was sure to give them all heart attacks. But the big Saiyan was there, at least, a mere few feet away, and for now that was enough.

                Puar sighed happily as he settled in to watch the object of his infatuation, trying to stifle a purr as the heat vent across the hall switched on, blowing warm air directly onto him. He wished the vent were on his side of the hall so that he could snuggle up to it and be all toasty warm; moving to the other side of the hallway would put him directly in Nappa’s line of sight. Oh well; the current of hot air was still pleasant from his position, sliding over him, ruffling his fir with its slightly dusty scent.

                Radditz  had turned away from Nappa, Puar noticed, and was busy preparing the giant’s snack when the first wave of warm air gusted in from the hallway. His head snapped up, nostrils flaring, and Puar watched with growing horror as the Saiyan threw down the piece of bread he’d been buttering and stormed into the hallway. Puar panicked and tried to scamper away on all fours, not having sufficient time or inspiration to change form before the big Saiyan was on him, grasping him roughly with one hand and lifting him up by the scruff of the neck, wriggling and squirming.

                “What the shit?” Radditz snarled, inhaling the cat’s scent. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He moaned, bringing his other hand up to run down one side of his face. The saiyan looked stressed and angry, so Puar did the only thing he could think of; he meowed. “Fucking cats,” Radditz examined the straining blue ball of fur in his hand, noting with surprise that the colour and texture seemed familiar. “I’m sick,” he said aloud, looking into the cat’s wild, terrified eyes. “I’m seeing him in a fucking cat. I’ve finally lost it.”

                “Mrooowwwwl.” Puar yowled and resumed his struggling. Was he about to become Radditz’s mid-afternoon snack? If only he could get purchase on the man’s arm, Puar thought, slashing about with his claws unsheathed, then he could latch on and bite, and hopefully startle Radditz into letting go.

                “Ugh, fine,” Radditz bent over and put the cat down, “you’re no use to me anyway.” He said, all the while wondering why he was even bothering to insult the little animal. What good would it do? Well, it did make him feel a bit better, actually. He watched, drooping a little, as the cat scampered away, tearing down the hall and around the corner.

                Inside the room, Nappa frowned. He’d heard the whole one-sided exchange, of course. Radditz had been a little different ever since that night after the weapons factory debacle, when he’d come back reeking of lust. The kid had been preoccupied a lot, was spending a lot of time alone in his room. Nappa groaned. First Radditz had taken to mooning after some stranger, and now the prince was spending every spare second with that blue-haired, blue-eyed witch. He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling, not looking forward to the events that were sure to come next. He remembered, of course, what it was like to be young, to experience the first tugs of the mating dance, the all consuming and damn irritating need to be around that one particular person. Nappa had been there, long, long ago. He’d done his time, put that embarrassing, awkward stage of his life behind him. He’d had his forever mate, fathered brats by her, and grieved their deaths in Vegetasei’s passing. He felt like an old man, watching those two young fools, both going through the steps without even realizing it. Of course, neither had been of an age to understand any of it when they’d been drafted into Frieza’s forces. Radditz, just having entered puberty, was far too occupied with the carnal aspects to even think about the more permanent, practical ones, and Vegeta, at a scant five years old, still thought of females as a different species. Nappa frowned again, wondering if he’d failed to impart the importance of the mate. With his own dead and the loss properly grieved, he’d felt no obligation to turn away from the whores on offer, and wondered if his obvious skirt-chasing had led his young charges to devalue the desire for the forever mate that was certainly ingrained in their biology.

                But then again, he thought, watching Radditz shuffle back into the room, the two of them seemed to be figuring things out okay on their own. He didn’t relish the idea of having the “birds and bees” talk with two fully grown, sexually experienced men, especially not if one of them was going to be Vegeta.  Nappa shrugged to himself and laid back on his pillows. He wondered if his sire had felt this way, this strange sense of fatherly pride and guilty amusement, watching _him_ during his mating time.

*

*

                Zarbon frowned at his computer screen and tried once more to contact Vegeta. The tracking device on the Saiyan’s pod showed that it was in movement, and Zarbon knew that the prince rarely used the available sleep-inducing gasses unless the trip was to be particularly long, so there was no reason why the little bugger should not be answering his hails. It was fishy, to be sure; even Vegeta wouldn’t ignore a direct order to communicate that had been sent from Frieza’s control room.

                Luckily, the overgrown lizard wasn’t present, as Zarbon wasn’t yet sure that he wanted to share this little bit of intrigue with his master. Everyone, even Frieza, knew how much the prince hated the yoke of servitude, though the tyrant was far too pompous to even entertain the thought that the Saiyan might someday be a threat to him. Zarbon was smarter than that, however, and had seen the potential in the young prince for years. He wondered if he might benefit from whatever mischief the little monkey was dabbling in.

                No, Zarbon thought, he wouldn’t tell Frieza. He’d already given the lizard enough of a hand in suggesting that Ginyu be sent into the heart of the resistance. He only wished he knew who Ginyu had chosen as his new body, so that he could warn his own contacts in the resistance and have the captain taken out, once and for all. Ginyu’s refusal to tell, as he suspected a leak in Frieza’s top forces, had thrown a major wrench into Zarbon’s plans. Even Frieza didn’t know, which Zarbon thought was uncharacteristically clever on the part of the showboating clown. This way if he fucked up, Frieza wouldn’t know who to kill.

                Breathing out a world-weary sigh, Zarbon began the tedious process of covering his tracks, carefully deleting moments from the ship’s communication archives and inserting fake queries so that if Frieza, or anyone else, did happen to look at the logs, it would at least appear as though he had not been loafing off. It was not likely that anyone was checking up on him, Zarbon thought, but one could never be too careful when playing this dangerous game.

                “Hey, you,” he called over to the one other occupant of the room, once he was done altering his history. “Come over here.” Likely the man did not harbour any suspicions, but still...

                The navigator jogged quickly over, pleased at the momentary reprieve from the boring task that was keeping the ship’s motion on track. “What can I do for you, sir?” He asked, stopping to salute.

                “Well for starters, you can call me a clean-up crew.”

                “For what, sir?” The puzzled soldier looked around, not seeing any mess. Nevertheless, he punched in some numbers and requested that some slaves be sent down. He stiffened when he felt Zarbon’s palm atop his head, heat seeping through his skin into his skull.

                “The mess I’m about to make.” Zarbon said, stepping back at the last moment to save himself from being drenched. He couldn’t avoid some of the splatter, however, and scoffed in irritation at the blood specks that dotted his pristine uniform. Without a second thought, he swept away to bathe and change, trusting that the crew would figure out what needed cleaning without his help. Briefly, he stopped at one of the many comm units dotting the ship and delivered orders for a new navigator to be sent down.

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Radditz swears a lot and Oolong is a perv, but we love them, right? We also love Glorax’s Sprigot Powder, even if we don’t really know what it is. Why are we referring to ourselves as we? Not sure, but one thing, we know: We love hearing what you thought, so please leave a review.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Back on track with the normal one-and-a-half-weeks-or-so update schedule, with a chapter that’s slightly longer than the last one! Welcome to the several people whose reviews began with some variation of “I just found this and read the whole thing...” ! Glad to have you, hope you continue to enjoy! As for you long-time hangers on, I just wanted to say thanks for all of the reviews and the kind encouragement! Between fanfiction.net and mediaminer.org, we’ve hit over 200 comments! Thank you all so much!

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PRESENT DAY

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                Vegeta laid on his bed, alone, in the darkness. “Well, this is a familiar situation,” he muttered, and wondered immediately where the bitter thought had come from. He closed his eyes, forcibly removing the thought from his brain by sheer force of will. It was three am, according to the glaring red clock on the bedside table, and he was still painfully awake. He performed a quick mental calculation, figuring that his body must still be running in a different time zone, but that shouldn’t have mattered. A lifetime of service in Frieza’s ranks had left him with the ability to drop in and out of sleep states at will with little to no trouble.

Unless something was bothering him, which there, of course, was.

                Vegeta took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand, pushing out, out, out, before releasing it with a deep sigh. Eyes still closed, he began to take stock of his body; consciously flexing each muscle and joint, sensing the rightness of healthy flesh and the wrongness of his wounds. It was a ritual he’d been engaging in since childhood and one that helped to relax him, bringing an odd sense of calm with the assurance that he was, at least, physically intact. He began with his toes as he always did, curling the little digits into his feet, holding it, releasing slowly before moving on to the awkward, almost painful tightening of his arches. A little roll of the ankles felt nice before a flex of the calf muscles, both legs simultaneously. He was not patient enough tonight to do them one-by-one.

                Slowly, as he ran his fingers over tight, ridged abdominal muscles, his mind began to relax. He took control of each and every muscle, losing himself in the physical, soothing the raging beast that lived in his head. Eyes still tightly shut, he concentrated hard on his belly, in that small place where torso joined hips, below the stomach and the intestines and, perhaps near the bladder? Right there, a spot tender to the touch, was where he’d felt the power originate, before almost killing himself with its release. He could feel it there right now, settled and unthreatening, almost unrecognizable as the terrifying force that had nearly ripped him apart. There was something to it though, something like a hum, a very faint vibration, that he knew he’d felt before.

                He’d been so close - _so close!_ \- he knew, to turning Super Saiyan, to fulfilling the prophecy that had been settled upon him at birth. He clenched his fists, trying to maintain the tranquil state of his body with little success.

So. Fucking. Close.

The thought galled him, and he had to fight the rising sense of anger that swelled through him at this denial of his birthright. The strength, the power, it was all inside him, just waiting to be released! But how? It shamed him to think that he was lacking the ability to control his own body, like a brat who still pissed the bed. He had to figure it out. Was he lacking in discipline, or in form? Was some part of his mind shying away from the thought of such baffling potential? _‘Or are you just weak?_ ’ He asked himself, this last idea finally breaking the tenuous control he’d obtained over his raging mind.

Body exercises forgotten, he sat up in bed, the covers falling to his waist. His room had no windows, the only light coming from the clock, which now read three-twenty-two. It was enough for him to see by as his pupils dilated to their full size; not that anyone could tell, surrounded as they were by irises so dark as to appear black. He looked down at himself, hands spread out in the darkness before him, palms facing upward, strong fingers curling ever so slightly inward. He tried to remember the last time he’d really thought about the things he’d wrought with those hands and gave up, not  in the mood to war with himself on good versus evil, or the morality of survival as he knew it.

He squinted in the dark, trying to make out the faint pink edges of new skin in the centers of his palms where the power had forced its way out, tearing through his skin with a heat that had melted the fabric of his gloves right into his flesh. Errantly, he wondered if he could get new gloves made out of something that wouldn’t melt. Non-synthetic fabrics were hard to come by and he went through a lot of gloves, but he had the money and the connections; something plant-based would be good. Perhaps he’d see to ordering something in the morning.

Vegeta rolled his eyes at this last thought. It WAS the morning. Three-twenty-seven in the morning, to be precise, and he was sitting in the dark, thinking about fabric. He groaned, recognizing that despite his best efforts, his brain had returned to a full state of wakefulness that he didn’t think would be receding any time soon. So much for rest.

Grumbling, he heaved his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, resigned to his fate. Hunting around in the dark, he came up with a pair of shorts and quickly slipped them on. He decided not to bother with his boots, tattered as they were. No one on the base wore the same shoe size; he’d have to go elsewhere for replacement footwear. Barefoot and shirtless, but with a spare tee hanging from his fist, he stalked out of his room and down the hall toward the recreation room that he and his kin so often commandeered for training, much to the irritation of the permanent residents on board the station. The small bald one had joined them once or twice and had been not bad, as far as weaklings go. The others mostly watched and grumbled, especially the tall bald one – the triclops with the massive stick up his ass. Each of the saiyans, with the exception of perhaps Gohan, looked forward to the day that the pompous earthling might step into the training ring with them. His constant sneering and bad attitude were irritating and had begun to grate without the normal release of being able to beat the bastard to a pulp, having promised to play nice.

 Vegeta was glad to have the room to himself though, for once. He meant to work on his control and his reflexes and was not interested in an overblown shoving match at the moment. That could wait until after breakfast.

*

*

                Puar felt his heart racing, the poor little organ beating so hard beneath his ribs that he thought it might break out at any moment, slap him in the face and say “What the FUCK were you thinking?” He wasn’t certain that he had a good answer, to be honest. He’d just wanted to see Radditz so badly, though the sentiment had nearly gotten him discovered. He shuddered to think of what might have happened in that case and tried not to think about it, but the ghastly thoughts kept bouncing around in his brain, careening off the inside of his skull like so many rubber balls. He shook his head violently, as though the action could send them flying out his ears and far away.

                Needless to say it didn’t work, and to add insult to injury, it left him a bit dizzy.

                He didn’t know what to think, wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole mess; he only knew that seeing the Saiyan made him weak in his furry little knees and he didn’t want to go back to never feeling that way again. He’d lived a lifetime of loneliness and he wasn’t in any hurry to return to it. Sure, he was surrounded by friends whom he loved deeply, but there was always that craving for something more, for a hand to hold and a warm body to snuggle up to at night. Of course, there was no guarantee that Radditz would be willing to give him those things, or that he even _wanted_ them from the big brute, but walking away before he figured it out didn’t seem to be a viable option. It also didn’t hurt that the sex had been fucking fantastic.

                Would it really go so badly if he told Radditz his secret? Maybe he’d be cool with it. Maybe they’d laugh together about how foolishly nervous he’d been. Or maybe, and perhaps more likely, Radditz would take one look at his furry hide and tear him apart. The saiyan was a born predator, with sharp teeth and a strong jaw; Puar was certain he wouldn’t last long if it came down to a fight for his life. Ugh. Now he was thinking macabre thoughts, imagining what it would be like to be torn apart, wondering if Radditz would indeed feed on his corpse. Eww; the last image made him queasy. Being eaten was high on Puar’s list of deeply disturbing things.

                And yet still...

                Maybe...

                Nope. Still gross.

*

*

                There had been a time in his life, Krillin reflected, that he had cared very much about what other people thought. He was very glad to be past that age, because were he still the stammering, self-conscious wallflower he’d been, he was sure he’d be dying of embarrassment. He was getting his ass handed to him by an eight year old kid, while two of the strongest beings he’d ever come into contact with watched from the sidelines. Radditz and Vegeta stood side by side, the bigger man shouting insults and encouragements, while the diminutive prince watched quietly, tapping one finger against his crossed arm, as though mentally ticking off points on a list. _Reasons why Krillin is a Jackass_? The bald man wondered, grunting as Gohan’s elbow caught him in the sternum. He doubled over, coughing, while Gohan floated nearby, looking as though he wanted to apologize.

                _Friggin’ Tien_ , Krillin thought, as he dropped to the ground and limped off to the side, allowing Radditz to take his place in the sparring ring. The three-eyed assassin had scarcely set foot in the training rooms since the Saiyans had taken over, leaving Krillin to beg for some time against the fearsome aliens, lest he fall out of shape during their stay. Vegeta and Radditz had given him a hard time about it at first, but had welcomed him easily enough the next several sessions, even though he rarely lasted even ten minutes against them. The mere fact that he returned, day after day to take his beating, raised him several notches in their estimation.

                Saiyan respect or not, Krillin grimaced as he eased himself down on a bench to watch, he was sure looking forward to the regeneration tank that Vegeta was supposed to be buying them.

                “Where are the rest of the pathetic weaklings that call themselves warriors?” Vegeta’s gravelly voice shocked Krillin out of his thoughts, and he turned to face the Saiyan, surprised that the prince had actually moved closer of his own volition. He cocked his head, regarding Krillin with the same bored expression he always wore. “Blue used to speak of her team, her little battle force.”

                “Well...uh...” Krillin stuttered stupidly, shocked that Vegeta was actually talking to him, the words more than just simple commands to get out of the way or to pass the salt. “There’s really not many of us who fight, now that Yamcha...err, Sable, is dead. There’s me, Chichi, Sixteen, and Tien, though he’s a fairly recent addition to the station. We knew him on Earth, see?” Vegeta grunted, and Krillin, interpreting this as a sign, continued to babble. “Most of the dangerous missions are me and Bulma and Puar, but Chichi and Sixteen switch in sometimes. Even Roshi and Oolong have helped out, though they’re usually just picking something up. Trustworthy in here,” he tapped his heart, “but not always in here.” He tapped his head and smiled lopsidedly at Vegeta, who did not return the gesture. “Tien hasn’t been out yet, because we haven’t had anything innocuous to send him on. Just danger and intrigue since we picked him up from the slaver colony.”

                “You trust him?” Vegeta asked, and Krillin nodded.

                “He’s from Earth. We knew him back then, and he was honourable. These things that have happened to him, they’ve messed him up pretty badly, made him scared, made him angry, but I don’t think you can change a man’s basic nature so easily.”

                “Hmph,” Vegeta snorted, “you think so, do you? The things I could tell you, little man, of the deeds of _good_ men. They would make your skin crawl.” The prince sounded almost amused, though he certainly did not look it. Krillin shivered.

                “Well maybe those men were never good in the first place.” Krillin retorted, and Vegeta looked at him with disdain, as if to say _What makes you so sure, then, about your Tien?_ Quickly, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the bald man alone with his thoughts while the other two continued to spar. If they noticed Vegeta’s departure, they certainly didn’t think much of it. They were obviously quite used to his frequent mood changes and not bothered by his often unpredictable behaviour.

                Briefly, Krillin wondered where the prince was going, but then realized he was probably headed toward the lab to pester Bulma. That seemed to be his favourite thing, aside from training and eating, and the idea made Krillin a little uneasy. What were the man’s intentions, he wondered, remembering the night they’d tried to kidnap Gohan, particularly the shameful moment that he’d cowered in the shadows while Vegeta talked flippantly of raping his friend. He hadn’t followed through, of course, and Krillin was pretty sure the prince hadn’t intended to do anything but scare Gohan, but what a way to do it. Bulma had no doubt been terrified, and Krillin wondered what she thought when she looked at Vegeta, or when she was trapped all alone in her lab with him. She was a genius, but not always a smart girl. Would she think of the vicious killer with the grabby hands, or the smooth-voiced banter she’d shared with Vengeance?

                “It’s really none of my business.” Krillin muttered to himself, but continued to worry nonetheless. Bulma was really too trusting sometimes, and while Vegeta might not be the type to force himself on her physically, Krillin didn’t think the prince would have too many qualms about fucking her over along with the rest of the crew of Red Station. Then again, he hadn’t really let them down yet. Maybe there was hope, after all.

*

*

                “Yo.” Bulma tipped her wrench in greeting and shot Vegeta a quick smile, like she always did, even though she knew he wouldn’t return it. As usual, he grunted and sneered at her, as though her simple pleasantries were a grave insult.

                “Tien.” Vegeta said, perching in his usual spot across the table from her. He’d been coming in all week, at least once a day, to pester her about the gravity machine, or to snoop through her blueprints and files, or simply to insult her in any way he could. She was beginning to wonder if he was lonely.

                “Ooh, are we playing a game?” She tilted her head and feigned stupidity. “Ummm...Sixteen. Do I win?” She twirled a strand of hair round her finger, realizing too late that her hands were covered in grease from the engine parts she had been tinkering with. “Aww, hell.” She muttered, quickly grabbing a rag to try and wipe the black smear from her hair.

                “The bald one says that he has not been here long.” Vegeta rolled his eyes, ignoring her antics. She’d played this game before.

                “No, he  hasn’t.” Bulma replied carefully, wondering what force in the universe had possessed Vegeta to climb off his high horse and actually have a conversation with Krillin. “But I trust him, and you can look through the files yourself. He hasn’t sent or received any suspicious messages.”

                “Code.” Vegeta shrugged, plainly agitated. “And any spy worth his salt would not send directly to Frieza’s control room. That would be suicide. He probably has a network of highly un-suspicious people to pass his messages though.”

                “Un-suspicious?” Bulma smiled. “Is that a word? And for your information, Tien hasn’t sent any messages through our computer systems since he arrived here, Vegeta. So unless he’s sending smoke signals...” She trailed off, suggestively.

                “Is it possible that he is sending through another account? A hidden one?”

                “I highly doubt it. Tien hardly ever sets foot near the computers, and when he does, all I ever see him doing is playing games. The man spent three years in a slaver camp, Vegeta. Who the hell do you think he networked with?”

                “Ugh, fool woman.” Vegeta snarled, throwing his hands to the air. He came back down, planting them on the desk so that he leaned over, his face above hers as she sat, looking up. “Must you be so fucking optimistic? Everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise.”

                “Hmm,” she shrugged, her pose nonchalant but her eyes like steel as she glared back at him, “where I come from, we say innocent until proven guilty.” She heard the rumble emanating from his throat, saw his tail lashing behind him, and was reminded of an angry dog, backed into a corner and snapping at any hand that came near. She sighed. “You know,” Bulma stood up, reached over, and ran her fingers over one temple, up into his coarse hair, “you lied to me. You said it was seventeen shades of orange.”

                “What? By the Gods, woman!” Vegeta snorted at the sudden change of subject, stepping quickly out of her reach. Who the hell did she think she was, touching him like that!? She was so damn disconcerting! “I’m amazed you even remember that conversation, given how stinking drunk you were. I could smell you through the com-link!”

                “I like your real hair much better.” Bulma smiled at him, surprised and pleased at his reaction. Was the proud prince embarrassed? Shy, even? She would swear that he was actually blushing a little. “It’s much more regal.” He was sputtering, totally caught off guard by her insolence and her absolute inanity, so much so that he didn’t even know how to respond. She leaned over the table, appearing to casually rest her weight on her arms, but in reality practicing one of the deadliest moves in a woman’s arsenal. She shifted, the neckline of her top sliding lower, breasts pushing up and together as they rested against the crook of her elbows. She caught the quick downward dart of his eyes, the slight widening of them before he forced his attention back up to her face, his features an iron mask of disdain and irritation. He was strong, she thought; no man had ever stood so admirably against The Cleave.

                “Like I give a shit.” He snorted, berating himself for that glance, unaware that there was worse to come.

                “Vegeta,” she said, gently biting her bottom lip before allowing it to plump back outward, wet with moisture from her teeth. Oh Gods, the lips. He couldn’t take his eyes off her sweet, inviting mouth. “Don’t you want to find out if I was lying, too?” One finger hooked around her neckline, running up and down the fabric, toying with his sanity. “About the colour of my ni-“

                “Don’t you fucking say it!” Vegeta snarled, cutting her off. He didn’t think he could handle it. He was ready to throw her to the floor. He took a step forward, and she straightened, not sure that she’d made the best decisions in the last few moments. She’d thought it would be funny, but the hard note in his voice reminded her of the night she’d tried to rescue Gohan, and memories of his arms like steel bands preventing her escape suddenly made her cold. “Don’t think you can toy with me, bitch.” He rumbled, stalking past her and quickly out the door. Bulma was left standing by her desk, finger still hooked at her neckline, pulling the fabric down just enough to see the barest hint of lace beneath.

                Quickly, she pulled her hand away from her chest, not really sure where to put it afterward, awkwardly placing it first on the table, then her hip, then finally bringing a finger to her lips in puzzlement. She was disappointed, in all honesty. She supposed she should be relieved or angry or something, but all there was, was the deep, disappointing ache of an orgasm denied. She hadn’t thought about it consciously, but analyzing it now, she’d really wanted him to say “Fuck yes, I am curious about the colour of your nipples!” before tearing off her shirt and finding out for himself. Then, masterful succubus that she was, she’d have seduced him into fucking her right there on the desk, blueprints be damned!

                “Ugh, what am I thinking?” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I must be crazy! He’s an egotistical maniac with a mean streak a mile wide, and he’s not even very nice to me!” She said aloud, fully aware that talking to oneself was another hallmark of craziness. “Okay,” Bulma shook her hands out, cracked her knuckles, and plopped her butt down into her chair, “work. I am working on this! I am not slacking off or thinking about alien booty. No sir. I am working!”

                “Well I do wish you would consider doing it the other way around!” Mrs. Briefs’ shrill voice rang from the doorway as she tottered in on her usual high-heels, a heavily laden tray of snacks in her hands. “I would love some grandchildren, young lady, and that Vegeta looks like husband material to me!”

                “Mo-ther!” Bulma moaned, abandoning her table to help her mother with the cumbersome tray. “You’ve only known him for a week.”

                “So? I have _eyes_ , Bulma!” She tittered, parking her rear in the stool that Vegeta had just vacated. Bulma sighed, resigned to the interruption, and selected a tiny sandwich from the tray. To be honest, she was starved. “Besides, you’ve known him for quite a while now!”

                “As Vengeance. Geez mom, I didn’t even know his name until a week ago!”

                “So, what’s his name matter? If your dad woke up tomorrow and told me his real name was Franzibald Eunice Thuringood and that he’d been keeping it a secret all these years, I wouldn’t care one whit!” Mrs. Briefs nibbled daintily at her own morsel and watched disdainfully while Bulma gobbled hers down in two bites, more so out of spite than bad table manners. Mrs. Briefs had been counselling her daughter to be more ladylike for her whole life, and the young genius had most certainly not fallen in line.

                “That’s not exactly the same thing. What if this Franzi-whatever person had a really bad reputation?” Bulma plucked another sandwich from the tray.

                “Well then I’d know the truth, wouldn’t I?”

                “Okay, so what if most of his reputation was the absolute truth?” Bulma put forth, looking smug as her mother pondered the situation, blonde head tilted to the side as she thought.

                “You’re making excuses for yourself, Bulma. You did it with Yamcha and with every other suitor you had, and it won’t get you anywhere.” Mrs. Briefs said succinctly, and hopped off her stool. “Do enjoy the snacks dear.” She poked her daughter in the ribs before teetering out of the lab. “You’re nothing but skin and bones! Men like a woman with a little meat on her!”

                “He’s not going to EAT me, mom!” Bulma yelled at her mother’s retreating back, and immediately regretted her choice of words as the petite blonde turned and winked, posing like a beauty queen.

                “Not with THAT attitude, he won’t!”

*

*

                “Augh, damn it, brat! You’re doing it wrong!” Nappa growled, swatting at Gohan’s hands, which were currently trying to tie off the bandage around Nappa’s thigh.

                “If you’d hold still, I could do it properly!” Gohan grumbled, his fingers slipping again as Nappa jerked, the bandage once more falling into disarray. “URGH! This was a whole lot easier when you were unconscious!”

                “Can I...help?” Chichi poked her head shyly around the corner, not sure if it was a good idea or not to have offered her assistance. “I’m um...” she stepped into the doorway but did not enter further into the room, a little intimidated by the largest saiyan’s presence. “I have quite a bit of experience in this sort of thing.” She gestured toward the bandages, and Gohan nodded vigorously.

                “Please!” He sighed exaggeratedly, throwing his hands up. Chichi smiled, aware that she was showing in her son, despite the fact that she’d had nothing to do with him for three entire years, since he was five. He’d not turned completely saiyan after all!

                “Well hurry the fuck up, then!” Nappa groused from his position on the bed. He’d had enough of rest and relaxation, and was itching to be pronounced fit enough to return to the training ring, if not the actual battlefield. Gohan shot him a quelling look, which he stoutly ignored. “C’mon, c’mon! I’m dyin’ of old age over here!”

                Chichi frowned, immediately regretting her decision to help the big brute. “You’ll watch your language, mister!” She bustled over, morphing into her no-nonsense wife and mother persona as she went. Nappa’s eyes went wide with surprise and he grumbled something under his breath in that guttural language of theirs. “And you!” She pointed a finger at Gohan as she poised herself above the big man’s leg. “If I ever hear you talking like that, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap!” Nappa watched with amusement as the boy seemed to shrink a little, red faced with embarrassment. He started to laugh, but his guffaws quickly turned into a grunt of pain as the human woman unexpectedly grabbed the ends of the bandage and yanked hard, putting sudden pressure on his wound. He roared with anger but she ignored his outrage, instead smiling at him with a mock sweetness that curdled his stomach. “The trick is to apply lots of pressure, you see?” She was quick to tie the ends off, the pressure relenting somewhat as she clipped the fabric and tucked it under, and Nappa had to admit that she’d done a good job, though he stopped short of saying it aloud.

                “Finally!” Nappa spat, bracing his arms on either side of himself and swinging his body round so that his enormous legs hung off the bed, bare feet planted firmly on the cold floor. He made a move to get up, but the woman’s surprised cry and the unexpected presence of her weak hands pushing him back shocked him into staying his momentum.

                “You can’t get up!” She scolded, taking in his appearance. There were still thick bandages wrapped around his broken ribs and his thigh, and though the bruising and burns that had covered him had begun to heal, his body was still dotted with angry, mottled purples and the bright furious reds of blistered skin. Any human in his condition would be unquestionably bedridden.

                “I’m fine.” He pushed past her, sufficiently recovered from his surprise, and stood stretching his muscles, trying to rid them of the lazy feeling that so much bed rest had bred. “You up for a spar, kid?”

                “You know, you really should lie back down.” Gohan insisted. “Vegeta hasn’t given you the all-clear yet, you know.”

                “Pfft.” Nappa snorted, “That’s because Vegeta’s been too busy sniffing after that blue haired bitch to –” he stopped himself hurriedly, wishing he hadn’t said it aloud. The brat’s mother was staring at him, wide eyed and alarmed, while Gohan stood red-faced and fidgety. So he’d noticed it then, too, and him just a cub. Nappa wished he hadn’t been ordered to bed for the past week; for the brat to have noticed it, it must have been getting bad.

                “What?” Chichi forced out through a suddenly dry mouth.

                “I mean...nothing.” Nappa coughed and scratched his head, looking away.

                “Nappa you’re a terrible liar.” Gohan shook his head and turned toward his mother. “Look,” he said awkwardly, unable to really meet her eyes. Wasn’t the birds and the bees talk supposed to be the other way around? “You probably shouldn’t worry about this.”

                “Shouldn’t _worry_ about it?” Chichi hissed at her son. “Bulma is my best friend, and you guys are telling me that some dangerous, murderous, angry _saiyan_ wants to...is...” she trailed off, not wanting to say the words she was thinking in front of her eight year old son, even though he was obviously familiar with the ideas she was trying to get across.

                “Dad was a saiyan.” Gohan said, stubbornly.

                “A broken one.” Nappa put in, grudgingly.

                “This is different!” Chichi snapped. “Vegeta is scary, and your father was anything but! Not to mention that Vegeta is much stronger than your father ever was! He could kill her, and every one of us, with a snap of his fingers and I don’t trust him not to!”

                “Pussy.” Nappa muttered, and Gohan wisely chose to remain silent. Vegeta and the other saiyans had lots of good qualities, but they were a different kind of good than his father’s had been, and he doubted that his mother would ever be able to appreciate the grace of a clean kill, or the strength of mind required to stay sane in Frieza’s ranks.

                “Wait,” Gohan held up a hand to silence the fury that was threatening to explode out of Chichi’s mouth. “How do you know Vegeta is stronger than dad was?” He spoke slowly, reverently, as though a light bulb was just beginning to glow inside his head. “You can feel power levels, can’t you?”

                “Well, not really as well as the others could.” Chichi admitted, still glaring at the foul-mouthed saiyan.  “Krillin’s been teaching me, but I remember how the energy felt around your father, Gohan.”

                “Do you think he would teach us?” Gohan asked, and the excitement in his voice was enough to make Nappa curious. He raised an eyebrow at Gohan, and the child blurted it out without a second thought. “I can sort of sense familiar ki signatures; dad taught me,” he said shyly, for his mother had never been told that little secret. “But I can’t read power levels. There’s a way to do it though!” Chichi frowned uneasily. Sensing power levels was a highly guarded secret among the Earth’s remaining fighters and she didn’t know if she wanted the trio of brutes to learn how. “My dad could sense power levels and ki without using a scouter or anything like that! Think of how valuable it would be if Krillin would teach us all to do the same.”

                “Really,” Nappa rubbed his chin between two fingers. “Wouldn’t that give that sick lizard a bit of a surprise...” He grinned at Chichi. “Well at least something good will come of you useless weaklings.”

                “Err, let’s go, Mom.” Gohan took his mother’s hand and quickly dragged her from the room, aiming to get her away from Nappa as quickly as possible. The bald saiyan was on his best behaviour under orders from Vegeta, but Nappa’s best was still pretty rude, and his temper was short. If Chichi said the wrong thing at the wrong time, Gohan didn’t doubt that she might end up dead before she had a chance to defend herself. 

                “I don’t know if this is such a good idea, teaching those monsters to sense ki.” Chichi voiced her concerns once they were out in the hallway and she’d had a chance to straighten herself up once more. “I don’t know if we should really be giving them all these advantages over us.”

                “We aren’t enemies, mother.” Gohan said pointedly, and she sighed.

                “You aren’t, but them, I’m not so sure.”

                “When are you going to learn that there’s no me and them?” Gohan demanded, frustrated with her attitude. “I know you don’t like it, but _they_ and _I_ are _we._ ” He stressed. “If you’re going to hate them, you’ll have to hate me too.

                “I don’t hate them, Gohan.” Chichi swiped a harried hand over a wrinkle in her dress. “I just don’t trust them.” How could she tell her son that the men who raised him were monsters, and that she lived in fear of him turning out just like them?

                “Well you’d better not tell me any of your secrets then.” Gohan snapped and stalked off, leaving Chichi standing there in the hallway, alone and bewildered. She stared after him, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water as she tried to think of something to say.

                “You know,” Nappa had poked his head out of the doorway and he stood towering over her. Oddly enough, she didn’t get the sense that he was trying to intimidate or threaten her, but she straightened to her full height anyway. “You should probably just get used to it. He’s ours just as much as he’s yours, and we saiyans tend to stick together. Just saying.” He shrugged off her glare and ambled back over to the bed. “Besides that,” he lay down and pulled the sheet up over himself, “if he turns traitor on us, we’ll kill him, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want that.” He smiled at her, not really maliciously, just saying _that’s the way it is_ , before closing his eyes. “Shut the door again, will you? I need my beauty rest.”

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And then Nappa slept for a thousand years, because that’s how much rest he would need to be beautiful. He’s kind of a bastard, but I think he’s trying to help in his own way...sometimes. Also, how many of you would run screaming from a Puar(humanoid form, of course)/Radditz lemon, and how many of you (cool people) would cheer it on? I haven’t decided yet if I’ll write one, but it feels like after all this lead up and so much Puar-smell, it would be kind of a letdown if I did the “fade to fluttering curtains” kind of scene. Let me know! Please remember to review!


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Sorry for the delay, folks. I was about 90% done this chapter a week ago, and various fun circumstances have slowed down my rate of writing. This chapter’s a bit longer than most; hope that makes up for it. And of course, thanks for all the reviews on chapter 16, and for your patience as well.

WARNING: This chapter contains graphic sex. If you would like to read an edited, M-rated (as opposed to NC-17) version, please visit my profile on fanfiction(dot)net. Same author name.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Krillin stared nervously at the awkward array of pupils lined up before him, and swallowed the pounding heart that was threatening to leap up his throat and out of his mouth. “So...welcome to Sensing Ki 101,” he joked, and no one laughed.

                “Get on with it, Baldy!” Master Roshi heckled from the sidelines, his own naturally bald head shining under the fluorescent lights.

                “Yeah, Baldy!” Oolong, also quite hairless, joined in, and Krillin rolled his eyes. He’d asked Roshi to come along today and help because the old man had been his own teacher when he was young, but he could see that the aging master’s particular brand of classroom skills might not go over so well with the saiyans, who were standing stock still and glaring most hatefully at him. Well, Gohan wasn’t. Gohan was looking pleadingly at him, silently begging him to make sure the three adult saiyans didn’t regret wasting their time on this.

                No pressure.

                “Well,” Krillin coughed into his hand. “Ahem. Anyway...sensing ki is easy once you get the hang of it. It’s pretty much second nature; you don’t even have to think about doing it. Learning how can be difficult for some, however, and we’ve found that you have to have a fairly substantial power level to be able to really properly sense the power in others. I, err, don’t think this will be a problem today.” He shrugged at the line of saiyans, who all continued to stare, stone faced, at him. Why had he allowed himself to be bullied into this? Unlike Chichi, who’d chosen to remain absent from their little class, he had no problem with the saiyans learning to sense ki; he just didn’t want to be the one to teach them! Earlier in the morning he’d allowed himself to wonder what would happen if they couldn’t learn, and he’d nearly had a panic attack, imagining their reactions. They were smart, well Vegeta was at least, but all three of them were full of rage and fairly quick to let it be known.

                “So,” he continued, “the first thing that I need all of you to do is relax. You need to clear your mind of other distractions so that you can concentrate solely on the energies around you.” He sat down and motioned for the others to do so as well. Gohan had his butt on the floor in under a second and Vegeta was surprisingly quick to follow. He saw the advantage in being able to sense ki without the scouter and that was the only reason the four of them were there, docilely listening to the diminutive human. Nappa and Radditz took a little longer to comply, the former rolling his eyes before lowering his massive body to the training mat.

                “Relaxation!” Nappa muttered as he settled into the cross legged position that the others had adopted under Krillin’s example. “No time to relax in battle.”

                “Nappa...” Vegeta warned, his voice low and threatening, and the big one shut up immediately. Oolong snickered from the sidelines, but one dark look from Nappa let him know that he’d be dinner if he didn’t keep his big mouth closed. 

                Krillin waited until all the grumbling and shifting subsided. When everyone was once more silent and still, he asked the saiyans if they had ever practiced any form of meditation, and was pleasantly surprised when they all admitted to having engaged in such practice. Some more than others, suggested the roll of Radditz’s eyes, but it was an excellent start. Trying to teach the rowdy bunch to meditate was not on Krillin’s list of fun things to do. “Okay,” he said, settling in to his role as instructor, “then I would like you all to relax your bodies and clear your minds.”

                “Shouldn’t be hard for Nappa.” Radditz interrupted, and Krillin was surprised to see Gohan elbow his uncle in the ribs. Brave kid.

                “Drop down into that meditative state,” Krillin continued, “and think only of energy. Yours and that of the others in this room, on this station. Think of the ebb and flow of energy through the universe.”

                “Ha-umm, ha-umm.” Oolong and Roshi chanted from the sidelines, and Krillin glared at them. Why had he ever thought they’d be able to take this seriously? Seeing the effect it was having on Krillin, Roshi added a new verse. “Ha-umm, ha-umm, chacka-cha, chacka-cha.” Oolong stumbled at first, but quickly caught on, and had begun to drum with his stubby fingers on the bench. “Shimmy-sha, titty-ta.”

                Krillin’s glare might not have made much of an impact, but Vegeta’s sure did, and when it fell on them, both troublemakers quickly quieted down, sudden fear making their insides roil.  Krillin resisted the urge to thank Vegeta, who he was sure would not appreciate it, and instead returned to the lesson with as much dignity as he could muster.

                “Relax,” he instructed, trying hard to calm his voice into the soothing, smooth timbre of a proper monk. “Relax all of your muscles, feel the tension flow from you, loosen your whole body.”

                And that was when Nappa farted; not just your every day fart, the kind that could be forgiven, even ignored, but that epic kind of fart that begins as a slow squeak and draws into the great, gasping burst of air as it struggles to free itself from the confines of the body. Fwaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeek. Just like that.

                “Not that loose.” Radditz muttered as he scooted away from his red-faced superior, nose wrinkled in disgust. Gohan, ever obedient, remained miserably where he was, embroiled in fumes. Vegeta sat, still as a statue, grinding his teeth with rage as the vein in his forehead throbbed. Krillin doubted that even fart-stink would be so foolish as to invade his Royal Highness’ personal space. Roshi and Oolong were rolling on the floor with laughter, absolutely unable to contain themselves even in the face of the painful death that was likely to come from laughing at a saiyan. Krillin sat, silent and open-mouthed, absolutely mortified at the awful turn that this whole session had taken. Vegeta was going to kill him, he was sure of it.  

                “Oh, lighted up Baldy!” Roshi hauled himself from the floor with surprising agility, even as his bones creaked and cracked. “It’s not all _flow of the universe_ and all that!” He tottered over to stand in front of the group. “It’s all energy and feeling the crackle of power in the air around you, and the sense of it in your skin!” Roshi winked conspiratorially at the uneasy group of saiyans. “Krillin’s a monk, you see. All in the head, never in the body.” He waggled his eyebrows and tapped his shiny cranium with the knobbed walking stick he often carried. “It’s a profoundly physical experience!” Radditz sat up a little straighter; he was all about the physical experience.

                “I’m sure you’ve all felt it before.” Krillin put in, a little miffed that he was being usurped by an insulting old man in a Hawaiian print shirt. Where did he keep getting those things, anyway? Surely you couldn’t buy them out here in space!

                “Explain.” Vegeta demanded, looking intensely interested for the first time since sitting down.

                “Well, I’m sure you’ve felt the power of a strong warrior, right? You feel the crackle in the air when someone powers up, for example, the tingle in your skin, the pressure pushing against your lungs and heart.” He was pleased to see that all of the saiyans were nodding along, paying close attention now, with understanding written plain on their faces. “You might mistake it for fear or awe, but it’s ki. I think you’re probably all just too used to relying on your scouters to actually tell you an opponent’s power level. Without them, you’ll be forced to pay more attention to the feeling of the ki. Once you learn how, you’ll be able to gauge power and, to some degree, intent.”

                “So how do we do this?” Gohan asked, speaking up for the first time.

                “Well, trial and error, really.” Krillin shrugged, apologetically. “There’s no way I can really tell you what to do, but I thought we’d start by having you all relax and concentrate on my ki as I power up and down, so you can begin to feel the differences. Once you’ve got that down, we’ll get Master Roshi in here so you can practice telling the difference between ki signatures.”

                “Well let’s get started then,” Vegeta groused. “We haven’t got all day.”

*

*

                Three hours later, Krillin and Roshi were absolutely exhausted. The saiyans were quick learners, but mind numbingly thorough. Vegeta had stubbornly refused to let anyone rest, teachers included, until all four saiyan warriors were able to not only estimate power level, but also tell the difference between Roshi and Krillin’s signatures in a blind test. They all had the basics down, and the poor, tired humans were only allowed to leave after convincing Vegeta that they could do nothing more.

                “You just need to practice.” Krillin insisted, far too tired to be afraid of the saiyan prince’s glare. “Take turns powering up and down for a while. Play hide and seek with each other. Challenge yourself to lock onto, and find, certain people on the ship. Just keep practicing. Everyone you see, make note of their power level and ki signature.”

                “What is hide and seek?” Radditz asked, and Krillin took the opportunity to sneak out while Gohan was explaining. He was starving and his body ached from the effort of continuously exercising his ki for so long. A snack and a nap were in order, he thought. Roshi tailed behind him, eager to be away from the serious atmosphere in the training room.

                “Well, they’re stubborn, if nothing else.” The old man let out a jaw-cracking yawn and casually reached a hand down to scratch his butt. “Shoulda gotten out when Oolong did.” He muttered, and Krillin shook his head.

                “Oolong was useless as far as the training goes.” He pointed out, “And now you can feel good knowing that you’ve yet again been a teacher to some of the most powerful beings around.”

                “Well, never hurts to have another super-fighter under my belt.” Roshi straightened a little, though he still seemed permanently hunched. “Though those boys could learn a little respect!”

                “Cool it, Baldy.” Krillin laughed, stopping to allow the aged master into the kitchen ahead of him. “I think you should just count yourself lucky than Nappa didn’t kill you for laughing at him.”

                “Too serious, the lot of them!” Roshi parked himself into a chair while Krillin pulled out some bread and meat for sandwiches.

                “Hey Chichi,” Krillin greeted the dark-haired woman as she strolled into the kitchen, a pile of dirty plates in her hands. “We missed you at the training session.”

                “Yeah, well...” she trailed off, shrugging with stiff shoulders before she set the dishes in the sink.

                “They’re not so bad, those saiyans!” Roshi declared as he kicked back, propping his feet up on the chair across from him. “Rough around the edges, yes, but not so terrible. How’re those sandwiches coming?” He asked, completely unaware of the tension in the room, or just uncaring of it.

                “Err, here’s your food.” Krillin shoved a hastily constructed sandwich toward his old master. “Why don’t you go and eat it in front of the television. I think Oolong’s in there too.”

                “Oh fine, fine, I get it!” Roshi raised suggestive eyebrows at his former student. “But  just so you know, I think Sixteen is also interested. I know I wouldn’t want to go up against that guy.”

                “Oh shut up!” Chichi shrieked, her cheeks flushing red with anger and embarrassment. “You filthy old pervert!” She snatched a cup from the sink and whipped it at his head before yanking an unwashed frying pan from the stovetop. Grease from the morning’s breakfast spattered the walls and floor as she swung, two handed, managing to catch the old man on the rear as he fled. “Dirty letch.” She muttered, face falling as she surveyed the mess she’d made.  As he watched her reach for a sponge, Krillin briefly entertained the notion of offering to clean up for her, but the look of furious determination in her eyes stopped him before he even opened his mouth. That, and it was a _really_ big mess.

                “Chi,” he ventured after having watched her scrub for a few moments. “You’re going to rub a hole through the countertop if you keep going like that.” Krillin braced himself for a glare and perhaps his own frying pan shaped welt, but she simply sighed and eased up on the pressure. No explosion? Slightly worrying. “Is something wrong?”

                “I’m sure Gohan told you I was not in favour of today’s little exercise.” She snapped, getting straight toward the point as usual. Chichi was blunt, if nothing else.

                “Yeah, he did. And I kind of see your point,” Krillin admitted as he watched her move toward a large grease stain on the wall, “but I’d like to trust them. I think I do, actually, and if they’re going to be on our side, I want them to have every advantage when it comes to fighting guys like Frieza and his cronies.”

                “And has it occurred to you that you’ve just given them yet another advantage to use against us?”

                “Chichi, don’t be stupid.” Krillin tossed his sullied knife into the sink with a clatter and topped his own sandwich with a piece of bread slathered in mayo. “Ki-sense or no, they could still wipe the floor with us any day. You can feel Vegeta’s power. Even at rest it would take the whole lot of us to even come close to taking him out.” He took his plate to the table and slumped wearily into a chair. For the first time since coming in, Chichi noticed how tired he appeared and she felt a little guilty about ambushing him with this. Not guilty enough, however, to drop it. “Look Chi, I know you’ve got some problem with them, but I honestly believe that Vegeta is our only real shot at defeating Frieza once and for all. How long have we been at this spy game, and we’ve barely even made a dent in his operation, much less any progress to taking him out of the picture. We steal some blueprints, he has more drawn up. A factory is destroyed, he builds two to replace it. We have no chance!”

                “So we take down Frieza and then what?” Chichi demanded, throwing her sponge down in anger. “Vegeta takes over? We remove one evil only to install another to power?”

                “If he’s the lesser evil, then yes!” Krillin snapped, exasperated. “And I don’t really think that Vegeta is evil, but if he is then so what? You’d rather Frieza go on indiscriminately killing and enslaving people?”

                “Of course not, but I don’t exactly like the idea of casting our lot with Vegeta and those monsters, either!”

                “What’s your problem with them anyway, Chichi? You’ve hardly even spoken to any of them aside from Gohan. How can you judge them?”

                “I don’t _need_ to speak to them! And don’t lump Gohan in with them either! Just look at what they’ve done to my son!” She burst out, furiously.

                “What, you mean keep him alive?” Krillin cried, incredulously. “Fed him and cared for him when no one else would? I’ve _seen_ them Chi, and they’re his family now whether you like it or not!”

                “I’m his family!” Chichi shouted, “I was his mother first! It’s not my fault he was taken from me! It isn’t fair!” She sobbed and deflated as suddenly as she’d begun to shriek, sinking down onto the floor. Obviously mortified at having burst into tears, she scrubbed hard at her face with the backs of her hands, unsuccessfully trying to wipe away the moisture in her eyes.

                “Chichi, listen to me.” Krillin knelt in front of her, having gotten out of his seat and come around the counter. He took her hand, stroking the back of it gently with his thumb. “Of course you’re his family, of course you’re his mother. Everyone knows that. Even those saiyans know that. But you’re the only one who can’t seem to accept that they’ve become his family too. He’d probably have died without them, Chi, and even if you hate the way they’ve raised him, you have to understand that they are responsible for him being alive today. They could have left him to rot, but they took him in and made him one of their own. He’s here and he’s _sane_ ,” Krillin stressed, “and you don’t see how lucky we are that they kept him that way.”

                “You think I’m not happy he’s alive?” Chichi sniffled, knowing that she was being irrational and yet clinging to her anger in the way that people who are deeply pained so often do. “You think I’d rather he was dead?”

                “Nobody thinks that.” Krillin cooed, moving to sit next to her. “But I do think you’re reaching for what could have been, when you need to hold onto what _is_. He belongs with them as much as he belongs with you. The only way you’re going to get as much of him as they do is for us to end this mess with Frieza so we can all live in peace. If nothing else, cooperate with them for that reason. “ He brushed a stray hair back behind her ear and reached up to grab a sheet of paper towel for her to blot her face and blow her nose. “Rough, but effective.” He grinned, before getting up and reaching down to help her stand as well. “Go and rest, Chi. I’ll finish this cleanup.”

                “No, no,” she smoothed the wrinkles from her clothes, suddenly flustered and embarrassed at her outburst. She felt like a terrible mother and was mortified that Krillin had seen her cry about it. “I need to keep myself busy for now. There’ll be plenty of time to think while I’m laying awake in bed tonight.” She smiled, trying to make light of the situation, but Krillin had known her for too long to not see through her charade.

                “Sure.” He smiled anyway, letting her keep her pride, and grabbed his plate from the table. “I’m gonna go join Roshi and Oolong then.” She nodded and turned toward a small splash of grease on the counter, and he made his silent exit.

*

                The problem with having learned how to sense ki, Vegeta thought, was that he hadn’t quite learned how to _not_ sense ki. When the bald man suggested they challenge themselves to search out and track certain people on board, he’d been irritated to find that only one person popped immediately into his head. He wasn’t so out of touch with himself as to be _surprised_ by it; no, he’d sort of expected it. After all, she flitted through his head at least a hundred times a day, with her big, stupid hair and her sweet, plump lips pulled into a pout as she offered to show him her tits. What a crazy bitch. What was her deal, anyway? What the hell did she want?

                Well, Vegeta knew what _he_ wanted, at least. He wanted to bend her over the nightmarish mess she called a work table and fuck her senseless, that’s what he wanted! Knowing and understanding that fact was easy; the hard part was trying to figure out why the desire was so intense that it dominated at least eighty-five percent of his conscious brain at any given moment. Yeah, she was hot, another easy admission, but he’d come across scores of beautiful women in his time and while he’d certainly found them attractive and hadn’t necessarily turned down any liaisons with them, none had ever made him burn like she did.

                Fucking witch. He was sure of it.

                Vegeta growled and punched his pillow in frustration. He needed to get her out of his head, or she’d surely be the death of him. She was damn distracting and distraction was not something he could afford. He needed to focus all of his attention on the game, the fight, walking the tightrope while discovery and death howled and snapped their teeth below him. He could not allow himself to fail at this. He had to find away to banish her from his thoughts.

*

*

                Bulma barely heard the footsteps over the sound of the rushing water, but she’d luckily poked her head out from beneath the spray for a moment in order to reach up and adjust the showerhead setting from full coverage to pulsing massage. She’d been bent over her workbench all day, sketching designs and reviewing schematics, triple checking calculations until numbers danced before her eyes, and her shoulders and back were screaming for some relief.

                “Mom?” She called out nervously, for it was the middle of the night and Chichi was almost always in bed before midnight. If the dark haired woman was up and about at this time, it was because she was glued to the comm-link, listening for any information she could find that might help out their operation.

Bulma had first stepped into the shower just after 2am and that had been easily twenty minutes ago, if not more. The only other permanent station resident who routinely stayed up this late was her father and even he wasn’t scatterbrained enough to accidentally enter the women’s washroom. Anyone would notice the difference in layout immediately and realize his mistake. Aside from the fresh scent and the lack of urinals, there were half as many showers here and they ran along only one wall, facing a long bench beneath a giant stretch of mirror. “Chichi?” She tried hopefully, and wariness gripped her belly at the silence that followed. Bulma swallowed heavily and stepped out from under the pulsing water. She moved as quietly as possible over the short ledge that separated the shower from the relatively dry front chamber of the stall and quickly wrapped herself in the towed she’d left hanging there. It was a little damp – everything always ended up a little damp, which was why she’d left her clothes hanging up by the sinks – but it was comfortingly opaque, if a little skimpier than she would have liked.

                Nice and covered, she tried vainly to peer beneath the stall door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her visitor’s feet, maybe recognize the shoes. No such luck. All she could see was the faint shadow he cast, awkward and multi-limbed under the double row of fluorescent lights. Steeling herself, she grabbed the door handle, flicked the lock, and wrenched the thing open as fast as she could. She was hoping to startle whoever it was on the other side, banking on a few seconds of confusion to make her escape if it was needed.

                From his position, feet far back and leaning forward, hands braced on either side of the door frame, Vegeta laughed at her. It was what seemed to pass for real amusement with him; that soft chuckle that sent shivers down her spine.

                “I have decided that I am curious.” He said, straightening up and stepping forward to fill the doorway, thoroughly trapping her inside the stall. Bulma took an instinctive step back, nearly tripping over the raised tiles. She stumbled back a little but regained her balance once over the hump and again under the pulsing stream of water.

                “Vegeta,” she gulped, clutching at the newly sodden towel as it threatened to slide away from her breasts. Heavy with water, it had already slipped down at least an inch and she struggled to tug it back up without further exposing herself.

                “Let it fall.” Vegeta said, stepping fully into the stall with her. She stared dumbly at him, her mouth agape and her towel still stubbornly in place, but he watched a tremor race through her body and knew that she was not afraid. “Is your chip malfunctioning, woman?” He sneered, taking another step toward her. He was shirtless and barefoot, shiny with perspiration that had not yet become stale. She breathed in, absolutely sure that she could smell the testosterone wafting off of him. Her hands trembled and the towel slipped a little further.

                “What...” she paused breathlessly as one hand reached toward her, fingers outstretched as though he were about to rip the towel off himself.

                “Seventeen shades of orange, indeed!” Vegeta muttered, one finger tracing ever so gently over the top of her exposed areola, peeking out over the edge of the towel. He hooked his finger over the edge of the fabric and tugged downward to expose the full round of her nipple, hard and pebbled despite the heat surrounding them. She gasped and continued to hold the towel over her other breast, as though her modesty could be saved, but made no protest when he cupped her naked flesh in his palm.

                “Yeah,” she whispered boldly, pausing to gasp as he ran his thumb over her nipple, slick with the water that was pounding her shoulders and running down her body. “I lied. Guess that makes two of us.”

                “Drop the towel.” He murmured, “Maybe you’re just lying about the one.”

                “You think I have two different coloured nipples?” She nearly choked on her laughter, completely and utterly surprised by the joke. When he’d stepped through the door, she’d honestly thought that he’d tear the towel away, toss her to the floor, and be done with hardly a word.

                “How should I know.” He was lowering his head, lips so near her ear that she could feel his breath on her skin. “I’ve never seen a naked human.”

                “Touché.” She gasped as he ran his hand up her covered side, the tips of his fingers grazing the side of her breast through the soggy fabric. She let go, and it slid awkwardly down her body – catching on her butt for a few seconds – before falling to the floor with a squelching plop. She winced; that sound was the opposite of sexy, but Vegeta seemed only to have attention for her breasts, the full roundness of them spilling out of his hands as he cupped them with eager hands. All thoughts of unsexy towels flew from her mind when he bent his neck, crouching slightly, to run his tongue across her left nipple.

                “Be quiet now.” He said, pulling the hard little bead into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingers, pinching it gently to make her squirm. Gods, he thought, his tongue trailing down to the underside of her breast, she tasted good. What had she washed herself with, sugar?

                “Vegeta,” Bulma moaned, and she wasn’t sure whether she was asking him to stop or pleading with him to go further. It wasn’t every day that a man, a virtual stranger at that, barged into her shower and demanded to be shown some skin, and to acquiesce to his demands probably wasn’t the classiest response. “I...uh...ah...” She squeaked as his teeth closed over her breast, gently tugging her nipple outward before releasing it.

                “Hush.” Vegeta commanded, kneeling down in front of her, his hands skimming down to grasp her hips, fingers kneading the soft curve of her flesh. His mouth followed, planting kisses over the flat plane of her stomach, nipping the skin around her navel with sharp teeth that reminded her just how dangerous this man was. The thought sent a thrill up her spine and she dared to reach down, her fingers brushing shyly down his neck and across sculpted shoulders. His head dipped in and out of the shower’s spray as he moved, the water trying in vain to beat back his wild hair. Encouraged by the hum that rumbled from Vegeta’s chest, Bulma ran her hands up and into his mane, fingers tangling in his coarse, stiff hair.

                “Ohhh, Ven,” she moaned, legs quivering, as his mouth swept down from her belly button. He nudged her legs apart and scooted forward, craning his neck just a little bit back, to find what he was looking for. Palms braced on her thighs, he ran his thumbs alongside her entrance and up into the neat patch of blue curls that adorned her there. He parted her flesh and leaned in, his tongue darting out to lap slowly at the swollen bud he’d revealed. His cock, still trapped within the confines of his soaked training shorts, twitched with desire at the moan she let loose, and he felt her body shudder at the sudden sensation. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he found her with his lips, thumbs working to massage the surrounding flesh. “Oooh, that’s...that’s...” She gasped, her head tilting back to rest against the cool tiled wall as he slipped a pair of fingers into her, expertly curling them inward to find the sweet bundle of nerves on her front wall. With his other hand, he steadied her before lifting her leg high to hoist it over his shoulder, forcing her to lean further back against the wall. Bulma’s head was reeling, her body jumping and jerking with each thrust of his fingers, each expert swirl of the tongue. Through the open stall door she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was momentarily stunned, wondering at what had come over her. There she was, soaking wet and shrouded by steam, face flushed, eyes shining, naked and spread for all the world to see. She watched the muscles in Vegeta’s back move as he shifted his weight, the smooth slide of them under skin marred by so much scarring. His tail coiled and uncoiled, writing in and out of the growing puddle on the floor; one of his knees was blocking the drain and the water had begun to pool.

                “ _What am I doing?_ ” She thought, frantically. _“I should really put a stop to this...I should really...oh God, that feels good. But this is really bad. Really bad. Oh, what’s he doing?_ ” Vegeta had moved her back down to the floor, for all the good the trembling appendage did to hold her up, and was slowly getting to his feet, his tongue tracing its earlier path in reverse.

                “You’re watching, aren’t you?” He was grinning at her in that devilish way of his, water cascading down over his body as he leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “You dirty creature.” He nipped at her earlobe, his hands coming to rest once more on her hips, drawing her body away from the wall to press into his own, his jutting erection hard against her belly through his dripping shorts. She felt her breath catch in her throat, eyes hot as they ran over his body, taking in the water-slick muscles, the smooth contours of his lean frame. She wanted him badly.

                “Fuck me.” Bulma breathed, her decision made, and as though he’d simply been waiting for her permission, he was on her in a second, his mouth crushing hers, arms surrounding her, pulling her close, suddenly frantic. She scrabbled mindlessly at his shorts, aching to have him inside her now that she’d officially decided to shut away her conscience and sense of propriety. He pushed her hands aside, her useless fingers making little headway against the tight, wet fabric, and pulled away to peel the shorts off himself, kicking them off with a wet splat. She caught sight of him only briefly before he was against her again, his mouth on hers, tongue demanding entrance between her lips.

                “Say it again,” he growled against her lips, hardly pausing to breathe before claiming them again. His hands were all over her, unable to remain still, enflamed as he was with the mad need to touch every part of her.

                “Fuck me, Vegeta,” she gasped when they parted once more. “I need you.” Her words seemed to electrify him; he pushed against her intently, his hands grasping her bottom, lifting her quickly off her feet while the pressure of his weight pinned her to the tile wall. She felt the tip of him nudge into her and she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist and drew him closer, further inside.

                “Kuuushhhh,” he hissed into her neck as he drew slowly out, and she wondered whether it was simply a sound, or perhaps a word in the Saiyan language. She’d die, she’d just die, if it meant ‘tight.’

                “What does that, ah!, mean?” She panted as he pushed himself back in, slowly stretching her, filling her up. His hands, supporting her bottom, squeezed as he angled her to meet him.

                “Kush?” He chuckled into her ear, the slightest exhalation of breath to let her know he was amused. “It means,” he drew back and this time came into her with a little more force, “fuck.”

                “Oh,” she arched into him with a small grunt of effort, “that’s a good word. Kush.” She rolled it around her mouth, her perfect lips puckering to mimic his sound as she bucked her hips to meet another thrust. “How do you say ‘me’?” She was panting, her voice breathy in his ear, and he shivered with the overwhelming want of her. He didn’t understand it, but was far past the point of trying and had crossed into _just fucking do it_ territory.

                “Quiet now.” He muttered, pressing a rough kiss to her lips as he increased his pace, slamming into her with every thrust and muffling her squeaks and moans with his own mouth. He was shaking with the strain of caution, his body unused to restraining itself, and yet from the way she jolted and bounced, he could see that he was probably being rougher with her than was wise. He tried to slow down, he really did, but his body just would not cooperate. Something more primal than his mind had taken over, urged on by her tight body and her panting breath in his ear to take it further, faster, deeper, and it was all he could do to restrain himself to the level that he was.

                “Oh, ahhhh...Vegeta!” She moaned into his ear, her legs tightening so that her heels dug into his back, her hands clenching hard at his shoulders. He could feel her tightening around him, her insides spasming with her oncoming release. Vegeta braced himself, forced himself to keep pumping through it, to not lose himself before she was finished. He buried his face in her neck, gritting his teeth against her cries, and only when he felt her burst and heard her sigh did he allow himself to let go of that control and move, slamming into her wet body until he burst with a soul-deep groan.

                Bulma felt him lose it, hot inside her, as all the tension and tightness seemed to slide out of his muscles. She heard him groan, felt the rumble of it up from his belly, through his chest and out his throat, their bodies still pressed together. He was breathing hard, his hands kneading her bottom in time to the last pulses running through his cock, still buried inside her; she could feel that, too. Slowly, so slowly, he lifted her body up and slipped out before setting her back on wobbly legs. She half expected him to step away but he remained stubbornly against her, pressing her still against the wall, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She was surprised to feel his lips press down in a kiss, before parting to nip her with gentle teeth. She moaned and he swore under his breath.

                “Where is your room?” He asked, his hands skimming over her hips. She felt the beginnings of an erection twitch against her lower belly, and her hands ran over his shoulders, up his neck to bury themselves in the hair on the back of his head.

                “Down the hall. Third on the right.” She whispered back, then yelped as he hauled her up into his arms. Stark naked and carrying her like a bride on her wedding night, he kicked the bathroom door open and strode into the hall, only to be met with a surprised gasp.

                Bulma’s head whipped round, her eyes wide and nervous, to see Puar drop to the floor in stunned silence. “Oh, hey...” She waved meekly from her position in Vegeta’s arms, hoping that the cat hadn’t gotten the full show. Puar waved back, his gaze darting back and forth between the red faced genius and the stone faced saiyan. “So...err...what are you doing up this late?” She shifted, trying in vain to cover her nudity . Hard when your butt’s hanging down between someone’s arms and the only thing keeping the air out of your slit is the effort of pressing your thighs together.

                Puar pointed to himself with one stubby paw. “Nocturnal.” He managed, though the effort of talking seemed great. Vegeta shifted impatiently, though some small part of his mind noted that he had not heard the animal speak before. He wondered if the black one had language as well.

                “Well, uh, I guess we’d better be going.” Bulma said awkwardly, feeling the prince’s restlessness and the echo of it in her own mind. “Umm...goodnight.” Vegeta was glowering at her, but she ignored him as Puar waved and high-tailed it out of there.

                “Are there any other visits we need to make?” He growled out, apparently unconcerned with the fact of their nudity, and merely bothered by the waste of time. Bulma blushed, thinking of what they could be doing with that time.

                “No.” She crossed her arms and turned up her nose. “Now what are you waiting for? Third door on the right.” Vegeta didn’t hesitate; he was shoving through her door before she could blink, slamming it behind him as he tossed her onto the bed. The light was on and she took in the full impact of his naked body as he stalked toward her, tail lashing impatiently behind him; the ripple of muscle and sinew beneath olive skin littered with scars, the twitch of his strong fingers as he reached for her, the proud stand of his jutting erection, hard and ready to go again. He crawled over her, the length of his body warm against her own, and claimed her mouth with a savage kiss, hand between her legs to test her readiness. “Wait!” she cried out as she felt the tip of his cock nudging at her entrance. “We should use...” She’d flipped onto her belly and scrabbled upward to reach into the drawer in her bedside table, coming out with a small packet. “You know...” She trailed off, seeming a little embarrassed as Vegeta snatched the condom from her fingers, pulling it from its foil prison and rolling it down over himself.

                “Come here.” He said, hauling her hips upward and back so that she was kneeling on all fours. He knelt on one knee behind her, bracing his other foot on the floor, and pulled her backward onto himself. Bulma gasped and shuddered as he hit the nerve spot inside of her, dead on, in a way that he hadn’t been able to in their earlier position. He stopped, pulled back a little, running his hands down her back with a quiet, questioning grunt – a wordless query as to whether she was okay.

                “I think you hit my uterus.” She joked, resting her forehead against the mattress as she pushed her hips slowly backward, taking him deep again. He snorted and ran his hands down over her rump and around the side to grasp her hips, holding them still while he moved within her. He felt her muscles tighten around him as he increased his pace a little, emboldened once again by the quiet sounds of pleasure escaping her lips. “You can...” she panted, “harder...”

                “Fucking temptress,” he muttered, taking her invitation. He controlled both of their movements, her body too weak to resist the hold he had on her hips, and he slammed into her, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought his instincts down to a level that she could tolerate. She cried out each time he drove home, her shrieks muffled in her pillow as their flesh clapped together, his balls swinging forward to slap the swollen, sensitive flesh that surrounded her clit. She pulsed tightly around him, but Vegeta knew that if he kept up, he’d come before she was ready. He tried to slow down but she begged him to keep going, so in desperation, he forced himself to look away from her naked back, the sweet curve of her buttocks as he hammered against her, the fall of her wet hair over glistening shoulders. He focused on the wall but too easily imagined pinning her there, so quickly forced his eyes elsewhere, his gaze flitting around the room as he tried to block out her moans, until it landed on the smiling faces of her and her former lover.

                The picture on her nightstand taunted him. He growled, deep in his throat, to see them, Blue and Sable, arms across each other’s shoulders, smeared with grease and laughing without a care in the world. Furious, he gripped Bulma’s hips hard and tore his eyes from the photo, pumping with a strength and speed that were probably beyond what was good for her. He didn’t want to look at her with that fool of a human while he was the one inside of her. Why did she have his picture there? Who was she thinking of, ass in the air, her face buried, squealing, into a pillow? He felt her shudder around him, her squeezing muscles urging him to come with her, but he resisted, his mind quickly working itself into a frenzy.

                Snarling, he pulled out and quickly flipped her over onto her back before mounting her again, their faces inches apart as he drew her orgasm out, another quickly building in its wake. “Look at me,” he demanded, pinning her arms to the bed, his hips grinding frantically down into hers. “Open your eyes and look at me!”

                She did, lips open and panting as she felt herself begin to crest again. Her eyelids fluttered and he growled, crushing his mouth to hers. His hips pumped hard, forcing her up the bed, her back arching splendidly each time he pushing into her, swallowing her cries as the savage kiss continued. She broke away, gulping air into her burning lungs. “Vegeta!” She yelped, helpless beneath him as she felt herself being driven once more over the edge.

                ‘ _Yes,_ ’ something inside him crowed with joy and self-righteous anger. She’d called his name, not the one of that other fool. No one else’s. Just him. Just him. Just HIM. She was his. She’d called his name. She was coming, shuddering and jerking and squeezing the life out of him, and she thought of no one else in the throes of her passion. Vegeta felt himself spill, more spurting forth with each breath, each pulse, each contraction of her muscles, but it wasn’t enough. The beast within him, the one that wanted her all to himself, was still angry, still mad with the need to possess her. He lifted a hand, energy gathering in his palm, and before she could do anything to stop him, he’d fired on the picture, blowing it to bits in a shower of glass shards and ashes.

                “Vegeta!” She shrieked in anger, jumping at the small explosion beside her head. She sat up, quickly dislodging him from her warmth, and scrambled over to the nightstand. Carefully, she picked at the glass, sifting through it for any signs of that foolish grin, while Vegeta sat back on his haunches and watched her. “What the hell?” She whirled around, breasts bouncing with the action, but he’d focused on her face.

                “He has no place here.” Vegeta said, his body tense as though he was expecting attack.

                “What are you talking about?” She yelled angrily, sudden fury overriding the effects of the last hour or so. “That was...it was my only...What business is it of yours?” She shrieked, making to stand. Vegeta stopped her, grabbing her wrist and yanking her forward.

                “The glass.” He said, when she slapped his hands away.

                “I don’t care about the glass!” She snapped, tears beginning to well in her eyes. “You already took him away from us once! You didn’t have to destroy the picture! It was all I had of him!”

                “I did not kill him.” Vegeta said stubbornly, refusing to give voice to the petty animal in his brain that wanted to know why she needed to hang onto him.

                “You let him die!” She shrieked, the tears running freely down her face. She snatched her robe from a hook on the wall and wrapped it quickly around herself, hiding her body from him. He tensed angrily, furious with her and with himself for allowing this mess to happen. “You could have saved him!”

                “If he’d lived he’d be in Frieza’s prisons, being tortured for information. I could not have allowed that. He did not wish it!” Vegeta roared.

                “So instead you stood there and watched him die a coward’s death!” Guilt crawled down her spine as the words tumbled out of her mouth. That was what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? This nameless anger and shame that she’d been unable to discuss with her friends, she was blurting out in fury to the heartless man before her. He’d died by his own hand, like a coward.

                “A coward’s death?” Vegeta sounded incredulous. “A coward?” Louder and angrier this time, because he didn’t know what made him angrier; the fact that she didn’t understand, or the fact that he was defending this dead and gone rival. “He chose that death, and if you think it is not brave to put a gun to your head and pull the trigger...” he trailed off, hands clenched by his sides, veins in his arms bulging with the stress. “He knew he was weak. He knew he would break and he chose death rather than to put everything in jeopardy, to put you in danger!” He snarled at her tear stained face as she huddled in her oversized robe and drove his hands into his hair, tugging furiously at the stiff strands.

                “You destroyed everything I had of him.” Bulma said, stubbornly, though with less force as his words began to penetrate.

                “If you cannot remember someone without a stupid fucking picture,” Vegeta grumbled, though he really wanted to ask the question that the monster inside was snarling, “then he must not have meant much.” He stood and strode stiffly out of the room, forcing his body to take each step even though what he wanted to do was turn around, pin her down, and fuck her until she forgot about him, forgot about everyone and everything but who was inside of her. “You’ve no photographs of me,” he snapped over his shoulder, “If I see you in the morning, will you know who I am?”

                “Vegeta,” she called out, but the door had shut and he pretended not to hear her. It was just as well, because she had no idea what she’d planned to say, or why she even called out. Did she want him to come back? Did she want to tell him he was full of shit? Did she just want to submit to the chemistry between them and allow herself to be boned into oblivion? “KUSH!” She yelled, throwing her pillow at the wall, before realizing that she would need it to sleep. Mindful of the glass, she got up to retrieve it before slumping down into her bed and burying herself under the covers.

                When she woke in the morning, the saiyans were gone.

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Kush is pronounced halfway between kuh and koo with a sh on the end. The emphasis is on the ‘k’ sound with the ‘sh’ fading into sort of a hiss. Ya know, just in case you were wondering.

               

               


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Sorry about the wait. I forgot to mention last time that I’d be leaving town for a few days, which really hurt the speed of this chapter, seeing as I do most of my writing on my days off. That said, next chapter may also be delayed. ‘Tis the season, you know. Work is about to get crazy, and I have a feeling that a lot of my spare time is about to be taken up for overtime and Christmas shopping. Thanks for your patience!

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SOME CONTENT YOU MAY FIND DISTURBING.

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PRESENT DAY

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                So what that he’d left, Bulma thought boldly as she shifted in her chair. She was a modern woman, no stranger to sex and while casual hook-ups had never been her modus operandi, she’d not exactly ever recoiled at the thought of a night of hot, sweaty pleasure with no strings attached. In fact, she’d certainly fantasized about them before, especially during her frequent ‘breaks’ with Yamcha. Well now she’d had one, she thought, and with the object of one of her dirtiest fantasies, which was another unexpected bonus. That was all this could be; a no strings attached, one night magic show. Vegeta did not seem like the settling type and his bolting after he’d been up close and personal with her had not exactly convinced her of his undying affection. Funny thing was that it wasn’t exactly the ‘one night’ part that bothered her; it was the fact that she’d been bolted on. If she’d been the one to up and disappear, her pride would still be fully intact, and she wouldn’t be dreaming up awful scenarios in which Vegeta bragged about his conquest while the other saiyans laughed at her foolishness.

                Bulma _HATED_ being laughed at. She hated being tricked, looking like an idiot who should have known better, and she had an awful feeling that she’d become just that. Viciously, she tamped it down. She was only a fool if the sex meant something to her, if Vegeta _knew_ the sex meant something to her. She clenched her fists. It _didn’t_ mean anything, she told herself ruthlessly. It was a night of fun, a release of the tension that had been building between them since that first awful time she’d heard his voice. It wasn’t love or even like; it was just lust and she’d indulged in it. Let the universe think she was a slut, so long as they didn’t think she cared.

Bulma felt like a real jerk as she forced herself out of her thoughts and back into the real world. She watched, hoping that sympathy showed on her face, as Chichi read the crumpled note for the hundredth time, at least. Her friend had bigger, more heartbreaking issues to deal with, and there she was, thinking about how she’d certainly been played. The note was written on a piece of paper towel, small rips and tears dotting the letters where he’d pressed the pen too hard; the kid obviously hadn’t had time to find any real paper. Knowing Vegeta, they’d all been woken and ordered immediately into their pods with hardly time to piss between. Gohan had slipped it under Chichi’s door in the middle of the night; a brief goodbye, sorry for not saying goodbye properly, don’t be sad, I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon, with his name signed at the bottom. _At least Chichi got a note_ , Bulma thought bitterly, and then mentally slapped herself for the selfish thought.

                “He’ll be back.” Chichi said, wiping away a stray tear. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and though the waterworks had mostly stopped, the occasional drop was still making its way out. “I know he’ll be back.” She repeated, reaching for a tissue to blow her nose.

                “I’m so sorry, Chichi,” Bulma hesitated, not really sure how to broach the subject of why the saiyans had so suddenly taken off. “I...I’m pretty sure it’s my fault that they left so suddenly.” She cringed in her chair, waiting for the burst of frying-pan anger that was sure to come, but instead Chichi was instead looking at her with concern.

                “What happened?” She asked sharply, and Bulma had the oddest feeling that perhaps her friend already suspected something. Why did it seem, lately, as though she was always the last to know?

                “Well, I’m thinking I definitely topped your ‘almost slept with Sixteen’ stunt for stupidity.” Bulma sighed and rolled her eyes. “I...uh,” she couldn’t look at the black-haired woman, “I slept with Vegeta. There. I said it, it’s out. Twice.” She added, cheeks flaming. “And then we fought and he stormed out.” She rattled off, keeping a desperate hold on her emotions because beneath her tough woman bravado, she felt hurt and used, and she wasn’t sure whether to be furious or just sad about the whole mess.  “It just...happened.” She said meekly, finally daring to meet the other woman’s gaze, and was surprised to see calm understanding instead of the indignant rage she had expected.

                “I knew I should have warned you.” Chichi frowned down at the table, huffing out her own sigh. “Nappa, of all people, kind of let it slip that he was...well...eyeing you. Maybe if I’d told you what I heard...” She trailed off, daubing at another tear, secretly glad of the distraction from her own mess of a life. If she thought about Bulma’s problem, she wouldn’t have time to dwell on her own depression and sense of abandonment.

                “It wouldn’t have made a difference, Chi. He came at me in the showers and, well, it was...” She looked furtively around to make sure none of the other inhabitants of Red Station were around. “It was fucking amazing.” She hissed, making Chichi burst out with surprised laughter. “I’m upset because he just left, the creep, without a damn word as to where he’s going or if he’s coming back. I feel stupid because I’m pretty sure I just got played by the universe’s primo bad boy, and I just let it happen. I just stood there and mewled like a pathetic little kitten while he...he... _ravaged_ me!”

                “Are we in a romance novel?” Chichi asked lightly, surprised by the sudden humour in Bulma’s expression. She’d have been mortified to be in the other woman’s position, but was hardly shocked by Bulma’s admission.

                “Shit, Chichi, there’s no other word. I was helpless against him; he had his way with me and I’m embarrassed at how much I liked it. Geez. If I’d at least insisted on being on top or something, maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad.” She lamented, her face pink with remembrance.

                “Or,” Chichi grinned, “maybe your powers of sexuality just drove him into a frenzy. He was helpless against his desire for you.”

                “Ahh, I like the way you think. Also, he bolted because he felt so strongly for me that he just couldn’t handle it.” Bulma laughed. “And if that’s true then we really are in a romance novel. Either way, I feel like I want to get really drunk and forget it. If we hadn’t fought, maybe not, but now I’m worried he’ll take his anger out on us as Vengeance, and that would not be good.”

                “Do you think he would?” Chichi asked, and Bulma shrugged. Despite her ominous words, the blue-haired woman didn’t seem overly concerned. “Have you apologized anyway, just in case?”

                “Pfft, as if!” Bulma scoffed. “It’s all his fault! He’s the one who friggin’ destroyed my only picture of Yamcha!” She crossed her arms stubbornly. Besides that, it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the blow-up, and there was no way in hell that she was going to go grovelling to that bastard.

                “He _what_?” Chichi sat back, a little bit stunned. It seemed a little too random to be coincidence, even for Vegeta’s notable temper.

                “Yeah, he fucked my brains out, and then out of nowhere he blasts the hell out of that picture of Yamcha! He’s all like _He has no place here!_ ” She said, deepening her voice, “and I’m thinking, okay, so we just fucked, what do you think you own me now? We had sex. We didn’t get married.” She huffed. “And then he left, which negates any kind of messed up fucking claim he thought he had.”

                “Okay first, language!” Chichi shook her finger like an old school-marm as she shoved her chair backward and scooted out from the table. “Second, it sounds like he was jealous.” She stood and filled the kettle before setting it on the stove. Girl talk of this magnitude would require a nice, fortifying pot of tea.

                “Okay first, you’re not my mom.” Bulma mimicked her friend, and stuck her tongue out. “And second, what’s he got to be jealous of? His only rival is dead; proof positive in front of his own eyes!” She averted her gaze, guiltily, as she recalled what Vegeta had said about Yamcha. She wasn’t ready to think about that yet. “He’s just a jerk. You know, I bet he was just looking for an excuse to leave.”

“I don’t think Vegeta’s the type to need an excuse.” Chichi said, setting out a pair of teacups. “If he was done with you after...erm...he was done, he would have just walked out without a word. I say jealousy, even if it doesn’t mean he cares in the end.” When Bulma rolled her eyes, Chichi sighed theatrically and patted her friend on the head. “You know, you always say you got your dad’s brains and your mom’s looks, but really, I think you also inherited a bit of blonde.”

                “No way,” Bulma shook her head. “My mom’s a whiz when it comes to guys and they’re alien to me. Why else do you think I was going to use the dragonballs to wish for a boyfriend? I was sixteen and hot! They should have been falling all over me, but I am useless at the opposite sex. That’s definitely from Dad.”

                “Bulma, as long as I’ve known you, guys have been throwing themselves at you and you’re too busy with your head in some tech manual to notice. Besides what about Yamcha?”

                “Yeesh, and look how that turned out. With each other for over a decade, but really I think we spent more time broken up than we ever did happily together. And now I’ve just bent over for a guy, for no other reason than he makes me salivate between my legs,”

                “Ew.” Chichi threw her friend a disgusted look. “Couldn’t you have picked a nicer euphemism?”

                “Hush. Anyway, so I drop my friggin’ towel just because he tells me to in that voice that sounds like Vengeance, and I let him have me, and look how it turned out.”

                “Well considering the fact that he’ll be back for that gravity room you promised, you really can’t say how it turned out. It’s still unfolding and could end up a million different ways.” Chichi shrugged, trying to make herself feel as comfortable with the idea as she sounded. “You should know that when Nappa was talking, he made it sound like you were some dog in heat, but maybe it’s more.” Chichi really wished that Gohan hadn’t changed the subject that day, effectively cutting her off from such important information. “Goku was...I don’t know how to say it. I basically tricked the man into marrying me. We were two kids who barely knew each other, and yet once he became used to the idea that I was his wife, he never even looked at another woman. If nothing else, it seems that saiyans are loyal to their loved ones.” The kettle whistled and she plucked it from the stove to pour steaming water over her favourite blend.

                “I don’t think I can really compare my one-night, ass in the air, sex-fest to your marriage, Chi.” Bulma squirmed. Chichi always had to take things to _forever_ levels and Bulma really wasn’t looking for that. Especially not with Vegeta. Yeesh. Despite what her mother claimed, Bulma was pretty sure he’d make a terrible boyfriend and a worse husband. He was hot, they’d had fun, and she would have liked a _goodbye_ at least, but his sudden bolt had really opened up her eyes. He was no good for her...so why did she keep thinking about him? “Besides, Vegeta’s a jerk. I don’t even know if I like him.”

                “You’re right, he’s a jerk,” Chichi nodded, “worse than a jerk, but there’s got to be something good if you let him into your pants. And despite what I’ve seen of him so far, Gohan seems to worship the ground he walks on...little troll.” She muttered, once again glancing at the wrinkled, tear-stained piece of paper on the table. She kept a hold of her emotions this time. If Vegeta liked Bulma, the saiyans would be back for sure.  

                “You’re taking this surprisingly well.” Bulma said, nervously eyeing the other woman. Where was the frying pan? Where was the rant about the sanctity of one’s body? Where was the fury over the fact that her best friend had slept with the man she saw as having ruined her son? Was this a sign of mental breakdown? Was she going to pick up a gun and go on a rampage?

                “To be honest with you, Bulma, I don’t like Vegeta. He seems selfish and hurtful and downright bad for you, but I can’t make your decisions for you. And,” She said truthfully, “the more he’s here, the more Gohan will be here. I’m sorry if that’s selfish of me.”

“I...I don’t blame you.” Bulma smiled at her friend’s bluntness. One always knew one’s place in Chichi’s eyes. “But your calm ‘let it be’ attitude is really freaking me out. I’m starting to wonder if Gero has replaced you with one of his androids.”

“Wait, you _want_ me to yell at you? I don’t think you could survive a frying pan to the head, the way the guys do. Besides, putting myself in bad sorts with you is really not beneficial, as I don’t envision myself being best buds with your mom for the next couple of decades.” Chichi shrugged her shoulders and poured the tea, making an effort to control herself. “I’ll take it out on Krillin and Tien in the training room later.” She laughed. “Maybe that three-eyes will stop acting so weird, now that the saiyans are gone. God, I wish Sixteen would fight me; he’d be a great challenge but he pulls all his punches.”

                “Tien’s been acting weird?” Bulma asked, “Like how?”

                “I guess you’ve been so busy in your lab you might not have noticed, but he wouldn’t set foot near the saiyans. Got all bristly whenever anyone mentioned them. I don’t know, maybe they reminded him of his captors on the slaver colony? Either way, he’s been really difficult since they got here, kind of picking fights over stupid things, being generally prickly. Krillin and I were talking earlier, and we’re hoping he’ll lighten up again now that they’ve left.”

                “Weird.” Bulma frowned, but didn’t say any more. Her brain was racing, trying to remember exactly what it was that Vegeta had said to her about Tien. Could he be the leak? She didn’t want to believe it, but no one could deny the fact that he’d been odd since they picked him up. She hadn’t noticed his withdrawal from the saiyans herself, but Chichi was right; she’d been busy and had hardly spared a thought for anyone but the saiyan prince...bastard. She remembered that he’d talked to Krillin though and thought that perhaps she should have a conversation of her own with the bald monk.

*

*

                Vegeta’s balls ached, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been replaying the event over and over in his brain, trying to figure out just what had gotten into him, and had only succeeded in thinking himself into a throbbing hard on. “Fuck.” He hissed, slamming his fist against the padded inside of his pod, as though it could relieve some of the tension he felt.

                He’d been sensing her all day, picking her up with his newfound ability to sense ki. She’d seemed the natural choice to hone his skill, what with her weak, barely-there power level and his own natural proclivity to her. He’d kept tabs on her even as he practiced with the others, a part of his mind working to figure out where she was at any given moment. Bad idea. Knowing where she was had caused him to wonder what she was doing, which led to him _imagining_ what she was doing. Likely: working on a project. Ideally: touching herself in naughty places.

                He’d scented a real, honest invitation in the lab when she’d offered to show him her nipples, and the thought of it, of doing to her what he’d lain awake in bed thinking of doing to Blue, was maddening. Vegeta had thought he was being smart in turning down her offer; they were both in a dangerous situation and he really didn’t need any sort of attachment to her. He didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize their shaky alliance, now that she held the power of his secret in her hands. As the day went on, however, he realized he was only delaying the inevitable and making himself miserable. It didn’t have to be an attachment, he told himself. He’d never, ever in his life, felt the desire to attach himself to a woman he slept with, beyond possibly sleeping with her again, and this thing with Blue was certainly no different.  

                Vegeta snarled at his distorted reflection in the red glass of the pod’s door. He’d thought that he could get her out of his system, like a fantasy obsession that falls short in real life. He’d fuck her, find out that she wasn’t worth the trouble, and forget all about it. That had been the plan, damn it! Instead, he’d gotten himself so worked up that he’d needed her a second time, and he would have gone again if she hadn’t started screeching at him. Fuck the picture, he thought angrily. He hadn’t even really thought about it before he’d blown the damn thing up. It had just...happened. It made him angry, that’s all he knew. It made his skin boil to see her, smiling and laughing, with that human’s arm around her. Sable. Fucking Sable. What a mistake. He never should’ve gotten involved with that one. If he hadn’t, he’d never have gotten involved in any of the operations of Red Station, he’d never have met Blue, and he’d be much more comfortable for it.

                Damn woman. He’d thought her codename referred to her eyes or her hair, but it was really a hint as to the state of men’s balls everywhere she went. Damn traitor body. He’d tried taking inventory of himself but for the first time in his life, the calming routine failed to do its job. Every tensed muscle held the memory of straining against her, the effort of holding them both up in the shower, the way her soft, warm skin slid against his. If he closed his eyes he could see her naked back below him, the smooth, round contours of her ass as it slapped against his pelvis, that stupid mass of blue curls hiding her head and neck from view. If they’d gone again, he thought he would have stood at the edge of the bed and had her on her back so he could watch her breasts bounce with every thrust. He’d missed that from behind. And after all that fantasizing about her mouth, he hadn’t even put it to good use.

                It had been a mistake not to shower again before leaving but he’d been in such a hurry to go, his mind so wracked with fury and lust that he just needed to get as far away from her as possible. He could smell her on his skin and was certain that his comrades would pick up on it as well. First one to tease him would get a kick in the teeth, Vegeta decided. And a yank of the tail. Nappa might have worked to deaden the pain receptors in his, but Radditz was the most likely to run his big fat mouth.

                “What does it matter?” He asked aloud, as though hearing it made it truer. “I wanted her so I fucked her. It has happened before, it will happen again. That is all there is to it.” He paused. “So why am I trying so fucking hard to convince myself?” He wasn’t willing to give voice to the part of his brain that insisted it was different with her.

                Not for the first time in his life, Vegeta wished that he had at least been a little older when he was taken from his home and kin. Nappa had done well in his role as tutor, but there were some things that he’d never discussed with the young prince, who normally would have learned them through observing his own kind. Sex, lust, mating; he’d figured the first two out on his own - hard not to, growing up in the environment that he had - but the last was like a fairy tale to him. Vaguely, he remembered hearing talk of it, of adults taking life mates. His parents had been, he thought, though he hardly remembered his mother beyond the sound of her voice and the perfume of her hair. The King, Vegeta’s father, had only made such an impression on him because he’d spent so much of his time trying to imitate the man. Could he really trust such memories?

                Vegeta shifted uncomfortably in his pod. Why was he thinking of such things? If this attachment to Bulma was real, which he doubted with all the force of his will, he would break it. He would not allow himself any weaknesses to be exploited; there could be no sentiments until after Frieza was dead and the danger to his life and his remaining clan was extinguished. After that, perhaps. Of course, not with _her_. Of course not. Well, maybe if she hadn’t turned into any more of a grizzled hag by then.

*

*

                “So...can I ask why we’re making this trip now?” Puar asked, nervously watching as Bulma white-knuckled the steering controls, her body hunched over as though she was concentrating very hard on avoiding a crash. The ship was on autopilot. All Puar knew was that he’d been dozing peacefully on the back of the couch before being grabbed by the scruff of the neck, shoved into one of the smaller transport ships, and told to shut up.

                “Because I barfed this morning.” Bulma grimaced, and the cat gulped. “I ate some sketchy leftovers in the middle of the night, and I’m pretty sure they’re the cause, but I didn’t use a condom the first time in the shower with Vegeta, and I’ve kind of entered panic mode.” She looked over, embarrassed both at the admission of her stupidity, and the memory of Puar’s panicked face at having caught them naked in the hallway. “I’m sorry to drag you out on this one, but I need moral support of the non-judgemental kind. Chichi would fry my ass if she heard I didn’t use protection, and my mother would probably start stuffing my food with pre-natal vitamins if she thought I was knocked up.” Bulma forced out a laugh; she really was in panic mode, and about one stray thought from tears. “I really don’t want to be pregnant.” She looked pleadingly at Puar, as though the strength of her will could erase the existence of any potential life in her womb, or if she could go back in time and prevent sperm from reaching egg.

                “You don’t know that you are.” Puar floated over to her shoulder, his warm weight a comfort. “You said so yourself; dubious leftovers. Besides, it’s only been a week since you defied the advice of safe-sex educators everywhere. Does morning sickness even come on that fast?” Bulma shrugged miserably and both of them wished they’d paid more attention in sex-ed.

                “Ugh, I’ve never wanted food poisoning so badly in my life.” She moaned, reaching up with one hand to scratch Puar’s chin. “What am I going to do?”

                “How far along do you have to be for a pregnancy test to pick up on it?” Puar asked, and Bulma shrugged.

                “The ones back on Earth, a few weeks I think. Or maybe it depends on when you are in your cycle. Who knows what kind of crazy shit they have out here?” Her voice rose a little as she lost her grip on the tethers of her hysteria. “I’ve never actually used one. Oh God, what if they don’t have anything that’s compatible with human hormones?”

                “Relax.” Puar reached down and put a paw on her trembling arm. “It’s going to be okay, Bulma. There’s no need to panic yet. You’re probably not even pregnant!”

                “Oh Puar, I know.” Bulma gripped her armrests and took a few calming breaths. “Fuck me, though. They come hard.” She was blushing. “Did you notice...with Radditz? Their sperm is probably, like, ten times faster than a human’s.” She continued, not waiting for the stuttering cat to answer her. “I know I’m being inappropriate, but you were there too, right? I know Goku was a saiyan and all, but I can’t imagine him being the way Vegeta was. I can’t talk to Chichi about this!”

                “Um...”

                “Oh God, Chichi probably got preggo her first time with Goku. Fuck. I should have asked her!”

                “Whoa! Whooooooa.” Puar made ready to rein her in, wondering at the same time if there was a paper bag handy, should she begin to hyperventilate. “Nobody is asking Chichi about her sex life with Goku, and especially not while she’s sitting at home, frumping around because Gohan left again, and CERTAINLY not because you think you might be knocked up by the guy whose fault that is.” He crossed his stubby arms. “You are freaking out and you need to calm down.”

                “You’re right.” Bulma swiped a hand across her face, her expression pained. “Of course you’re right. How selfish and stupid of me. I’m probably not pregnant.” She said, confidently. “I just have to think positive. I do not have a half-alien bun in the oven. This girl?” She pointed at herself, “No way.”

                *

                In the end, Bulma bought one of every pregnancy test she could find, as well as several litres of juice. One of the kits _had_ to pick up on the right hormone, and she’d be damned if she didn’t have enough pee to soak them all!

                “Why didn’t I study biology?” She whined, heading to the bathroom with a fresh batch of wands and a full bladder. “I built a fucking space ship, but I can’t figure out how to make a simple pregnancy test?” Puar heard the rattling of boxes through the door. “This sucks! Even if they all come up negative, I still don’t know if they’re accurate for my system.”

                “Bulma, don’t talk to me while you’re on the can.” Puar shouted through the closed washroom door as he heard the sound of her tearing open packages. “I’m traumatized enough by this already.”

                “Pfft.” Bulma snorted as she fought with another layer of plastic wrap. “This is payback for having to read your smutty emails.”

                “Don’t lie,” Puar joked, “you enjoyed it.”

                “Well, it was certainly _educational_!” Bulma shot back, laughing. She came out after a few moments of fussing, water running, boxes being meticulously lined up alongside their tests for easy review of the results, more hand-washing. “Well, that’s another round down.” Bulma sighed. “Still no positives, right?”

                “Right.” Puar confirmed, looking over the used sticks, making sure that none had changed in the three minutes since she’d last asked the question. For all his image problems and pervasive lack of self-confidence, Gods, he was glad he was not female! Pregnancy was a topic that had never appeared on his radar, aside from the hypothetical “what if” conversations he’d had with Yamcha, ages ago when his best friend still thought he might one day settle down with Bulma. How odd, he thought, that he was now her confidant in this scare. He and Bulma had not been close before Yamcha’s death, though they had of course been friends. It was as though they’d come together to fill the void he’d left. “Bulma,” Puar said, suddenly overcome with such thoughts, “I just want you to know that, whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

                “Puar, that’s so sweet.” Bulma cooed, plucking him right out of the air and pulling him in for a hug. “And thank you. It means a lot.”

                In the end, all of the tests came up negative. With no way to accurately confirm their effectiveness on human biology, however, Bulma’s fears were not assuaged.

*

*

                Vegeta awoke to the sound of sirens blaring through the space station, and knew it was not going to be a good day. He’d dreamt of Bulma again; was that the fourth or the fifth time in a week? He’d left her bed a nearly a month before and yet his brain would not let him forget. “Fuck.” He swore, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and rubbing his face. Lately he’d not been springing out of bed in his usual state of alertness, but rather dragging himself from beneath the blankets with the speed and energy of a sloth. The woman had done something to him, he knew it. Before meeting her, everything had been running smoothly, but she set him off track, distracted him and bred weakness in him. Briefly, he wondered if humans had magic, but dismissed the thought as silly. Perhaps she possessed some form of mind control or compulsion. He looked down at his dick in sudden panic. Had she poisoned him, somehow?

                The blaring siren stopped abruptly and the sudden quiet distracted Vegeta from his thoughts for long enough that when he came back to them, he realized how utterly preposterous they were. Still though, the realization unsettled him. If she did not possess such powers, that meant that the problem lay entirely in him. Somehow, he’d become obsessed with her. He’d heard of it happening to other soldiers; men and women whose lives were nothing but service. An attachment to a particular slave or shop worker, or oftentimes to a certain prostitute. A compulsion in the mind, a need to own and possess and horde one’s affections; it sometimes worked out but more often than not - and almost always in the case of whores – it ended in madness and pain.

                Vegeta shuddered. He had too strong a mind for such a fate, too determined a will. The mere fact that she was on his mind was utterly unacceptable, and he simply wouldn’t stand by and watch himself become a drooling lunatic for her. But how to stop it?  He’d thought that having her would stop the wanting, but it had only made it worse. He had to erase her, find something better – someone better – to make himself see that she was not the be-all and end-all of his sanity.

*

                The three saiyans sat up a little straighter when they heard Vegeta’s door slam shut, and the prince himself stalked into the small common area that joined their sleeping quarters. They continued to play their game, though no one’s mind was really on the cards. In the two weeks since they’d landed at this base, Vegeta’s mood had been steadily darkening; he’d been more irritable by the day. They’d all smelled the reek of female lust and unsatisfied need wafting off him as he exited his pod that day, so they all assumed he’d been equally miserable during their journey and thanked their lucky stars for the invention of sleeping gas.

                “Nappa,” Vegeta barked, stopping a few feet from the table. The big man nearly dropped his cards in shock. “I have a question.”

                “Oh, finally!” Nappa heaved a sigh of relief. “I knew I had been remiss in my education of your highness,” he said formally, striving to make the coming conversation as businesslike as possible, “but I could not think of how to bring it up. Radditz, Gohan, you should hear this too.” Nappa stalled the two as they shifted in their seats, ready to bolt. “You see, there comes a time in a man’s life when he feels his desires more strongly than ever; the time of the forever-mating is a –”

                “Where’s the best whorehouse on this planet?” Vegeta interrupted brusquely, and Nappa’s whole head turned pink with embarrassment.

                “My Prince, I don’t think...”

                “Answer my question, Nappa.” Vegeta snarled, and without a second to spare, the prince whirled on his heel and stalked out, Nappa’s mumbled answer ringing through his ears. It didn’t take him long to get there and as he handed  over his card and watched the Madame deduct a humongous sum of credits, he tried to tamp down on the nagging thought that he’d never actually _paid_ for sex before. He’d seduced plenty of women in his time, why now, of all days, wasn’t he up for the challenge? Was it pathetic to admit to himself that he just wanted to get it over with?

                “Best in the biz.” The Madame informed him, as she showed him to a lavishly decorated room and told him to make himself comfortable. “Isine will be up in a moment.” She smiled at him, all class with not a hint of baud in her expression, and closed the door, leaving him alone.

                Vegeta looked around, his eyes taking in the sumptuous fabrics, the gilt-edged frames holding original paintings, and tried not to let his surroundings embitter him. Disappointing indeed that a prostitute’s quarters were finer than his own barren rooms, and him a prince. Had the royal palace been stuffed with such things? He picked up a delicate statuette and frowned, unable to place it in what he recalled of his childhood home. Even among royals, he was certain it would have been smashed to shards in seconds. Replacing the trinket, he crossed over to the bed, running his gloved hand over the fine silk coverlet, watching the play of colours in the iridescent threads. There was too much lace for his taste, but there was no denying the cost of such an item. The men who frequented this place must be wealthy indeed. Idly, he wondered how much he had actually paid for the bitch he was waiting on, but shrugged it off. He had money to spare; his father had at least thought to set up a secret account for him, under Nappa’s care, before sending his young son off into the clutches of the monster.

                Thinking of his accounts, he remembered that he’d yet to buy the stupid regeneration tank for Bulma, and his thoughts soured so that when Isine finally entered the chambers, she was met with an agitated ball of frustrated energy. Well, even more so than he’d been initially.

                “Took you long enough.” Vegeta snapped, his tail lashing angrily behind him. He stiffened as she approached, demurely smiling. She was dark skinned, her hair blacker than the furthest reaches of space. She had sharp, fine features, and was a pleasant contrast to the softly rounded woman that he could not get out of his head. Bulma _never_ smiled at him like that, never lowered herself to looking up to him with subservient eyes. She dared to grin at him, as though they were equals. Fool woman. Witch woman. His fingers twitched, itching with the urge to strangle her for her insolence.

                “Refreshment?” Isene offered, oblivious to Vegeta’s dark thoughts as she opened a glass cabinet to reveal an array of bottles. Vegeta nodded and she pulled down a bottle of SiHo and poured a healthy tot into two tumblers before cutting it with sparkling water and a few ice cubes. She handed one glass to the man before her, who tossed it back while she sipped daintily at her own drink.

                “Enough of this.” Vegeta slammed his glass down, starling Isine as it cracked against the expensive wood of the sideboard, alcohol pooling where it leaked from a dozen hairline cracks. She smiled uneasily, unused to such violence in her clientele, and made a mental note to have the Madame book this one for one of the _other_ girls next time. Narrowing her eyes, she took in the bunched muscles, the tense way he held himself, the whipping tail that swayed behind his knees. She’d demand double her usual cut if he bruised her, she decided.

                “As you wish.” She took one last sip and set her glass down beside Vegeta’s, sorely wishing she could ply him with another cup or two of the potent alcohol. Then again, watching him stride stiffly over to the bed, she figured it would take the whole bottle, and more, just to calm his nerves. She wondered what his problem was; he was too old, too handsome, and too assured of himself to be a virgin. Job stress? He wore the armour of a higher-level soldier in Frieza’s army, though even the richest generals usually didn’t have the credit to afford Madame’s prices. Perhaps if she paid attention to what was going on in the universe, she would have known him instantly as the Saiyan Prince Vegeta, but she was kept far too busy to ever pick up a news serial. She knew that the men she slept with were powerful and rich, though the clever Madame kept her girls ignorant enough that they would never have a clue how to use that power for their own devices.

                Isene smiled as her companion began to divest himself of his clothing. Irritable and pushy he might have been, but he was certainly attractive, which was more than could be said of many of her regulars. She was used to the flabby stomachs and pale skin that living in excess tended to bring, but before her stood a well-cut specimen of masculinity. It was a treat that she intended to savour. “Lay down,” she purred, slowly unbuttoning her shirt, a thrill going through her as his black eyes focused intently on her actions. It was very rare that she was excited by her clients, but she could feel herself beginning to grow wet and she hadn’t even taken any of her stimulant pills yet.

                Vegeta stretched out on the bed, watching her toned body sway as nimble fingers popped buttons to reveal scanty lingerie beneath. Her voice was like caramel – sweet and smooth. So unlike Bulma’s high keen. His cock jumped, and the whore – what was her name again? – winked at him and ran her tongue over red lips. His eyes raked her body, covered now only in scraps. She was very beautiful, lean and toned, long legs and rounded hips.

                Her tits were half the size of Bulma’s.

                Snarling at the unbidden though, Vegeta reached for the woman, yanking her off her feet and onto the bed with a strength and speed that made her yelp in surprise. “Quiet.” He hissed, furiously pressing his mouth to hers to shut her up. He didn’t want any more of this silly act, this fake seduction. He wanted to fuck her until his mind broke, until he no longer compared every facet of her to the blue-haired bitch. This woman was beautiful, sexy, and only here to please his needs. How could he find her so wanting?

                Isene gasped as Vegeta tore off her bra, his warm hands immediately taking the place of that lacy scrap, thumbs running over her peaked nipples as he kissed the breath out of her. She moaned as he dipped his head to take one nipple into his mouth, and begged for more when he stopped.

                “No more talking.” He snarled at her, furious fingers digging into her sides. “No more noise.” He didn’t want to hear her moans. They were wrong. They were all wrong. He closed his eyes, too. No more looking at her. Vegeta closed his eyes and buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply through his nose as he attempted to calm himself, to gain control of his mind. He bared his teeth against her neck – she smelled of perfume and powder, when he wanted sweet soap and machine grease. He shook his head and pulled away from her body.

Vegeta fumbled with her panties, yanking them off with all the grace of a fifteen year old virgin. He was going to fuck her; all he wanted was her body around his cock. He didn’t want her sounds, he didn’t want to see her face or her hair or her skin, all different. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined Bulma, wet and trembling in her little towel, and felt his cock throb with need.

                He pinned Isene to the bed, irritated with her attempts to participate. Couldn’t she just lay still? He could hear her breathing. Too deep, too calm. Bulma had panted, short, quick little breaths, as though her brain could not focus on proper inhalation. He did his best to block it out. He didn’t want to think about either of them, he just wanted to use this warm body to forget, without having to think about what was attached to that heat.

                She opened her legs and the scent of her arousal hit him, shocking in its complete and utter wrongness. This woman was not what he desired, what he _needed_ , and the thought slammed hard against his brain, forcing him to open his eyes and look down at her. She was ready and willing, he could see it in her eyes, smell it in the air. She would let him do what he wanted, with pleasure, and allow him to walk away without complaint. She didn’t care if there was another woman on his mind. He could fuck her hard, until he couldn’t think anymore, and then never see her again.

                His cock twitched, and suddenly faltered.

                She looked surprised to see him hesitating at her entrance, though she could not see that he had grown so quickly soft. She looked up at his face, hard eyes staring, and swallowed hard, feeling a little bit scared for the first time since she’d walked in. “What’s the matter, love?” She purred, hoping to entice him beyond whatever hang-up he was stuck on. “It’s just a little push more.” She smiled and Vegeta felt a black rage wash over him, sudden and strong.

                How dare this bitch tell him what to do? How dare she be here, perfect and naked and wet, and completely undesirable? She didn’t even compare! How dare she even try, he thought, irrationally. Snarling, he reached up and grabbed her hair, yanking her upward. “Pretentious cow!” he roared, “Living like a queen off the cocks of lonely men. You make me sick.” He snarled, thinking how ugly her dark hair was, thinking how her flawless skin could not compare with the pink flush on Bulma’s pasty, sun-denied body. How could he have thought her beautiful? “Do you think you could be her?” He choked the words out, and Isene shook her head, crying mutely as she tried to figure out what she’d done wrong, what she’d done to provoke him. “You could _never_ ,” he hissed into her face, “be her.”

                With a twist of his wrist, he snapped her neck, dropping her callously on the bed as her bladder and bowels loosed all over the fine cloth. _Good_ , he thought as the stain spread and the smell rose, _ruin this place_. He stepped back, looking at her body as she defiled the lovely surroundings, and was suddenly overcome by the urge to destroy this pretty lie. He flung his fist out, connecting with a mirror on the wall, and smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces, before striding over to the statuette that he had examined earlier. He hurled it into the glass doors of the liquor cabinet and let loose a blast from his other palm. Not enough, he hauled the sideboard over, sent it crashing into the floor with a resounding smash as the scent of alcohol rose to permeate the air. He hurled a chair against the wall, tore at the paintings, put his foot through a glass table without pause.

                Within minutes the entire room was in shambles, broken glass littering every surface, the reek of piss and shit and booze in the air; now it was more like a barracks whorehouse, he thought humourlessly. Vegeta looked around at the mess he’d made, his chest heaving as he struggled to gather his wits, tried to make sense of his sudden outburst. He felt like he had as a child before learning to control his Oozaru form, shrinking down from a monster back into a man to see the carnage he’d wrought while out of his mind. He was frightened to see what he’d done; not fear of the consequences, but fear that he’d lost control over himself and gone on such a senseless rampage. Viciously, he stamped the feeling down but it left him shaken.

                Vegeta sneered over at the bed, at the body of the ugly woman that he’d killed. He felt an irrational hatred for her, and despite the fact that he knew she hadn’t done anything to him, he was glad that he’d killed her. _Not mate_ , seethed the wordless animal in his head, and Vegeta was inclined to agree, even though he didn’t know it. “Kush!” He swore, and spat on the floor. He didn’t understand the rage that bubbled within him, didn’t know where it had come from or when it would leave him. He hated the power that it had over him, the way it stripped him of sense and reason. Even his hatred of Frieza was a carefully controlled burn, but this? This was madness, pure and simple.

                “Calm yourself.” Vegeta said aloud, feeling the boil beneath his skin. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose it again. Trashing the room had been good, a physical release of the frustration he felt, but the uncontrolled fury made him uneasy in his own skin. Control was imperative. If he lost control, he would lose everything he’d worked for and live the rest of his life as just another lunatic in Frieza’s ranks. With that thought in mind, he took a few deep breaths and eyed the mess around him, separating himself from it as though he were a stranger who’d simply walked into the grisly scene, rather than the sole cause of it.

                Calmly, Vegeta exited the room and walked down the stairs where the wide-eyed Madame met him. She must have heard the noise. Vegeta didn’t care. “I made a mess,” he said, with a shrug. “Take it off my credit, if you need.”

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Crazybastardsayswhat.

 

Vegeta: “What?”


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Apologies for the lateness in posting this chapter. I took a break from writing between the last update and Christmas, and then I was a combination of busy and lazy.

LAST TIME (in case you forgot): Vegeta killed a hooker for not being Bulma, though if you asked him if that was his reason, he’d probably say something like “Feh, she was of no use to me.” instead of just admitting it.

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PRESENT DAY

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                “All three of you, training rooms, NOW.” Vegeta snarled, not even sparing a glance as he strode past his subordinates into his room. Less than a minute later he emerged in his training gear and stalked out the door with the others in tow, following along like a meek little conga line. They exchanged glances but no one was brave enough to say anything. Vegeta reeked of booze and death, and fury rolled off him like fog on a misty morning. His ki was spiking erratically, which set them all on edge and made their short trek to the gym seem like a death march.

                The prince wasn’t drunk, that was for sure; he was walking straight, head held high. The scent of alcohol seemed to emanate from his skin – he’d had to pull his soaked clothing out from under the smashed liquor cabinet, and some of the stink clung to him even after he’d changed. Some female’s scent was on him too, Nappa noticed, which did not bode well for her or for the three saiyans who were most likely about to get smashed into pulp. Whatever unlucky woman had crossed Vegeta’s path was likely dead, Nappa thought to himself, and he wondered if Radditz and Gohan had picked up on that as well. Not likely; he’d been much too embarrassed to continue having his talk with those two after Vegeta’s grand exit. Damn. At least he’d had the foresight to send Vegeta somewhere discreet. Word of the whore’s death would never reach the streets.

                “Vegeta,” Nappa said bravely, but the snarl that emanated from Vegeta’s throat was enough to halt his words at the source. Perhaps once the prince calmed down, he would be more amenable to a discussion. _That is_ , Nappa thought, _if I am conscious and capable of speech after this._ He gulped as Vegeta led them into the training rooms, dismissing those already present with a well-executed glare. Everyone in the army knew the prince’s reputation, knew of his power, and there were few outside of Frieza’s elite squads that would risk a confrontation with the volatile saiyan. The gathered men scrambled out of the room, only a few brave souls taking the time to glance back with pity at the obvious targets of his highness’ wrath. Nappa sneered back at those who dared meet his eyes, letting them know that he was not one to quake in his boots. He would meet this beating with bravery, for that is surely what it was to be.

                Vegeta launched himself immediately into the air, roaring a challenge that the other three saiyans could not ignore. They followed him up, all rushing him at once; working as a team would be their only hope of wearing him down. After they’d tired him out a bit, it wouldn’t be so hard to take him down; Vegeta was working on pure rage. There was no thought or reason behind his moves, none of the usual cunning that defined his fighting style. His technique was sloppy and his defence was nonexistent. Too bad for the other three that he was fast and strong, his madness lending him all its power; they’d yet to land a hit, even though he was leaving himself wide open.

*

*

                Bulma checked the communications log for about the tenth time that day, and ground her teeth with frustration. Vegeta had been gone for about a month, and combine that with the week that he was on the station, that gave the leak ample chance to have a message sent out, and more than enough time for someone under Frieza’s command to have reached them. Nobody had come, no word of Vengeance’s identity had been heard. She really didn’t get it, and wondering made her all the more paranoid. Vegeta had been _so sure_ there was a leak, and he was a man whose instincts did not often lead him wrong.

                With Krillin and Puar to help, she’d combed the backlogs for suspicious messages, eventually stooping to reading every single communication that had been sent since they’d gotten involved in the resistance movement. It had taken weeks, even with the three of them working diligently away, and they’d come up with nothing that could possibly have been code for covert activities. Finally Bulma had lifted the ban on communications use and instead routed every message through her own account. Unfortunately that meant she was still on Big Brother duty, deciding which messages were passed forward to their recipients and combing through those deemed suspicious.

                Her present frustration stemmed from the fact that she’d passed on every single message so far. None had struck her as being sketchy, which meant that either Vegeta was wrong about the leak being on Red Station, or the traitor simply had other means of communication. The first possibility pleased her – she didn’t like to think that one of her friends might be a dirty rat – but the second terrified her, and she wondered what possibly could have led one of her shipmates to double-cross them all.

                Of course, the fact remained that they’d yet to be turned in, as far as she knew. Had anyone in Freiza’s camp known she was Blue, they would have come bearing down on the station a long time ago. Then again, her own operations were so insignificant compared to those of Vengeance that she wondered if Frieza’s cronies had ever even heard of her. As stupid as it was, the thought stung her pride a little. Imagine! Bulma Briefs, outshone by some muscle-bound jerk in a contest of wits!

                “Back to the problem at hand, Briefs.” She reminded herself as she scrolled through the newly received messages. If the mole had another method of communication, why hadn’t she heard word of it? There was absolutely no way in hell that news of Vegeta’s ongoing subterfuge could possibly be hushed up, even if Frieza wanted it to be. Perhaps the traitor had changed his mind upon learning Vengeance’s identity? Or maybe he was playing a little game of his own, only passing on the most innocent tidbits he could manage? “Damn it!” Bulma swore, thumping her hand on her desk. She wished she knew who it was! Some small clue, some answer, even to know for sure that it was one of her friends would be better than the tedium of having absolutely no idea!

                “Eew, message from Radditz...pass that _directly_ to Puar.” Bulma muttered, dragging the message from her own inbox without even opening it. She was still scarred from reading the previous ones. “Dear Chichi, we have received your submission for the Glorax’s Sprigot Powder recipe contest...M. Roshi, we are writing to inform you that your subscription will end, would you like to continue receiving...uck.” She read aloud in a bored tone, passing messages to their respective recipients. “This is ridiculous.” Bulma let her head fall back, her hand straying from the mouse to tap restless fingers on the desk. “Fucking Vegeta. I wish he’d respond to my messages.” She said, petulantly. “At least then maybe there’d be something interesting in here.” She straightened and went back to her task, her mind still occupied with the saiyan prince.

                He hadn’t tried to contact her since leaving the station five weeks ago, either as Vegeta or his counterpart Vengeance, and she was left bristling at the snub. Was he really such a child that he couldn’t bear to have contact with her? Regardless of what had happened between them as Bulma and Vegeta, Blue and Vengeance were still supposed to be allies, and she bitterly regretted the loss of him in that capacity. They’d suffered mightily without his access to Frieza’s intelligences, and no one had even left the station in the past month, aside from routine shopping trips. “We did fine before he came into the picture.” Bulma banged her hand on the table, as though to spite their AWOL ally. Then again, for a long time they’d had Yamcha out in the field, so to speak, and Bulma wondered uneasily if the information he’d been bringing home had come from Vengeance all along. Obviously they’d had contact, though she knew not in what capacity.

                Bulma really regretted her outburst that night with Vegeta. He’d been in the wrong, there was no question in her mind, but not for the first time in her life, she wished that she had better control of her temper. Shrieking at such a prideful man certainly was not the most effective way to deal with him. Really, she’d fallen back into her old habits. Yamcha had always been so easy to cow; even Goku had cringed at the power of her mighty screech. Vegeta was a different sort, and though it galled her to admit it, he would not cower at her feet just because she threw a few nasty words in his direction. She had a feeling she could call him everything under the sun except ‘monkey’ and he’d not even blink.

                Where’d that come from, she wondered. Obviously she remembered seeing Goku transform and knew that the other saiyans must look similar. What was it called, Oozaru? Yes, the Oozaru form resembled a giant monkey, that was pretty self explanatory, but where had their hatred of the comparison come from? Was the transformation shameful for them, like Hyde to Dr. Jekyll? That didn’t really sit well with her, for it seemed that Vegeta was the type to embrace any sort of power, no matter the form it took. “It must be something else.” She mused aloud.

                “What are you babbling about, girl?” A sharp voice snapped her from her reverie, and she whirled to see Gero standing  behind her chair, his piercing blue eyes fixed most disapprovingly on her.             

                “Err, nothing.” Bulma flushed, frantically turning back to her computer to minimize the window she was working in. Couldn’t let Gero see her snooping through everyone’s stuff.

                “I need you to pick something up for me.” The old doctor went on, uncaring of whatever she was up to. His attitude rankled her, but Bulma reminded herself that without his hospitality, she and her friends would likely be dead or slaves by now, if they’d even survived long enough to make it to some other port.

                “Sure. Tomorrow soon enough?” She asked, and he nodded impatiently.

                “Yes, yes, the parcel just arrived on Chisal, so by the time you get there perhaps it will be cleared for collection.”

                “Okay, sounds fine.” Bulma said, wondering to herself if maybe she could sneak in a quick visit to Guru’s compound. The idea of telling him she’d done the nasty with Vegeta didn’t sit well with her, but she desperately needed advice from someone who’d been dealing with Vengeance for years. “Wait a minute.” She said to the doctor’s back, as he turned to leave. Briefly, she looked at her computer screen. She’d passed no messages to the doctor’s account...in fact, she couldn’t remember ever having interfered in his correspondence. “How did you know your package has arrived on Chisal?”

                “Oh, silly child.” Gero laughed coldly, turning to fix her in his icy stare. “Don’t tell me that you actually believed your little programs could hamper _me_.” He laughed again and an uncomfortable twinge ran up Bulma’s spine as he tottered out of her lab, presumably to hole himself up in his own once more.

                What a fool she’d been! All this time she’d paid no mind to the old man’s lack of communications, stupidly assuming that he simply didn’t make any! He hardly left his lab anymore, cloistering himself off from human contact, she thought he’d been busy working away on one of his creepy projects! “Shit!” she swore. What if he was the leak? What could his motives possibly be? Or what if the leak was using his equipment to send messages under her nose? Obtuse old man! Why hadn’t he told her?

                She banged her fist on the desk again, glad of its strength. One of these days, she’d wear a hole through that spot. “Old bastard.” She seethed, wondering why he liked to torment and humiliate her so. Always teasing, always flaunting the ways in which he could outdo her. Why was it always a contest? Well, she’d show him, the stupid old fart. If he refused to play by her game, she’d just have to insert herself into his!

*

*

                Radditz sat propped against the wall, Gohan laying flat on his back a foot or so away. Both of them stared upward, vainly trying to watch the match that continued above their heads. Nappa was a tough old goat, for all his annoying traits. He was holding his own with the Prince, though if Vegeta’s brain hadn’t been such a jumbled clusterfuck, the old man would have been down on the floor with his comrades.

                “What do you think has gotten into him?” Radditz asked aloud, and Gohan turned his head to look at his uncle. It was about the only part of his body he could still move.                              

                “Vegeta, or Nappa?” Gohan asked. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Nappa so evasive. Normally he’s a _punch for a punch_ kind of guy.”

                “I think he’s trying to tire Vegeta out.” Radditz watched the big saiyan evade yet another attack from their frustrated leader. Vegeta was beginning to slow and the sloppiness in his style was starting to become obvious.

                “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Vegeta in such poor form.” Gohan said quietly, hoping the prince wouldn’t pick up on it. He seemed too engrossed in the fight, but with Vegeta, one could never be too careful. “He’s really cut up over something.”

                “You noticed too, eh? Radditz shifted a little, trying to ease the soreness in his bottom. He and Gohan had been tossed out of the fight over an hour ago, and the floor was very hard. “Man, my ass hurts.” He complained, scooting down to shift his weight. “Whatever Nappa’s got to say to him, I hope he hurries the fuck up.”

                “You think it’s important?” Gohan turned his eyes back to the fight, just in time to watch Nappa land a kick to Vegeta’s midsection. The prince was hardly affected. “Because I think this is going to take a while. Vegeta doesn’t look like he’s exactly in a listening mood.”

                “Fucking fight me!” Vegeta howled from above, as though to prove Gohan’s point, as Nappa dodged another punch. The prince launched himself forward and Nappa narrowly missed a fist in the face as he spun away from Vegeta’s attack, at the same time grabbing the smaller man and shoving him away. Both hung in the air, panting, as they faced each other.

                “I’ll make you a deal, my Lord.” Nappa said, crouching into a defensive position. “I’ll fight you properly, and if I win, you’ll listen to what I have so say.”

                “Fuck off, Nappa.” Vegeta seethed.

                “It is important.” Nappa insisted, dodging again as Vegeta rushed him. The prince was left frustrated once more. “First one to be thrown to the ground is the loser. That way everyone is still conscious.”

                “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Vegeta blinked into sight behind his big tutor, kicking him forcefully in the left kidney. Nappa sprawled forward but managed to right himself before the prince could touch him again.                

                “Do you agree to my conditions?” Nappa spun with surprising grace to hover just out of Vegeta’s reach once more. “If you say no, I’ll continue dodging.”

                “Fine, FINE!” The prince snarled. “Just fucking FIGHT!” He launched himself at a grinning Nappa, who gladly entered into a volley of fast flying kicks and punches. Radditz and Gohan watched in awe as their prince was sent headlong into the ground in just under three minutes.

                “Your inner turmoil makes you sloppy, Prince.” Nappa said, touching down lightly. Vegeta, ever the bad sport, rolled and kicked quickly out at Nappa’s ankles,knocking him flat on his back.

                “Shut the hell up.” Vegeta said, over the other’s wheezing.

                “And now I have a thing or two to say.” Nappa coughed once he’d regained his breath. He was still laying on his back on the ground. It would be easier this way, he thought, if he didn’t have to look Vegeta in the face while he talked.

                “Out with it, you old shit.” Vegeta snarled, still on his back because it seemed to him that the energy required to sit up was just too much. Radditz and Gohan snickered at their prince’s predicament. For all he was a bad sport and a temper-case, he at least kept his word.

                “They should listen too.” Nappa said, hearing the snickers.

                “Get over here, now!” Vegeta shouted. “You’re stuck here for story time as well!” He grinned maliciously at the ceiling as the other two saiyans hauled themselves off the floor and hobbled over, grumbling all the while. They lay down on their backs too, staring up at the ceiling, because it seemed the thing to do. The discussion was going to be awkward, and nobody wanted to have to make eye contact with anybody else.

                “So,” Nappa said without preamble. “I think you’ve bonded with the blue-haired female.”

                “You think I’ve _what_?” Vegeta rolled quickly to his belly, glaring at Nappa’s bald head. “Don’t speak nonsense. I know you’re old and probably senile, but hold it together at least until I’ve killed Frieza. Then you can be disposed of.”

                “You fucked her, yes?”

                “That’s none of your fucking business!” Vegeta snarled, feeling his ki begin to mount uncontrollably with sudden rage.

                “You can’t get her out of your mind.” Nappa continued, as though there wasn’t a straining ball of fury a mere two feet from him. “You feel oddly possessive of her, and the attention of other females makes you profoundly uncomfortable.” The big, bald saiyan rolled to his stomach as well, to look the young prince straight in the eye. “You killed a prostitute today, didn’t you?” He asked, and Vegeta’s stony silence was the only answer they needed. Radditz rolled over as well, sudden voyeuristic curiosity having overtaken the discomfort of the discussion. Gohan, cringing, was the only one who remained stolidly on his back, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.

                “What has she done to me?” Vegeta ground out, shutting his eyes against the shame that coursed through his body.

                “Her? Nothing.” Nappa shrugged. “It happens.”

                “What is it?” Radditz spoke up, then wished he hadn’t. Not only was Vegeta glaring black-death at him, but he feared that the anxious tone of his voice had given him away. He couldn’t get Puar out of his mind. He felt strangely possessive of the other man, and just three days ago he’d been propositioned by another soldier and had punched the man in the face for even considering it.

                “It is the bond between a man and his forever-mate.” Nappa said reverently. “Something strange that ties a man so strongly to his female that...”

                “Don’t call her that.” Vegeta snapped, even as that voiceless beast in his head curled tightly around the idea. “She is not _my_ anything. I fucked her. Big deal, so what? I’ve done much the same to many other women, and I’m not, what did you call it, _bonded_ , to any of them.”

                “That doesn’t matter. One rarely bonds to his first.”

                “Why her, then?” Vegeta spat, and Nappa shrugged.

                “We did not question why, Vegeta.” The oldest saiyan said, his sagely words at odds with his bloody, bruised, fu manchu mustached appearance.

                “Fine, whatever, so let’s say I’m _bonded_ ,” Vegeta said the word as though it was a joke, “to this wretched female. How do I get rid of it?”

                Nappa looked shocked, his eyebrows high on his forehead, his mouth a downturned moue in the frame of his moustache. “Why would you _want_ to?” He asked, incredulously. “The forever mate is...is...” He seemed lost for words.

                “Is bullshit!” Vegeta put in.

                “I think we called it ‘love’ on Earth. The one.” Gohan said, finally rolling over onto his belly, though he kept his eyes firmly on the training room floor. “My dad loved my mom, even though they hardly knew each other when they got married.”

                “I don’t want this.” Vegeta said, ignoring Gohan’s words, glaring at Nappa. “She is weak, she will make me weak. I do _not_ want this.” He repeated, hissing out the words despite the protest of whatever instinct roiled inside his brain. “It is not real.”

                “Talk to Tarble,” Nappa insisted. “He has the disks your father sent with him. Would it ease you to hear your father say it?”

                “Fuck my father! I hope he’s rotting in hell!” Vegeta burst out. “And since _when_ do we take advice from Tarble? That piss-poor excuse for a saiyan!”

                “He has the disks, Vegeta.” Nappa insisted. “He has heard your father’s words on the subject. He and Gure...” Nappa trailed off at the disgusted look that overcame Vegeta’s features. “Have you never wondered why I did not protest his relationship with Gure?”

                “Just last month,” Radditz put in, “You called her a freaky little egg-head who probably couldn’t take in even Tarble’s tiny dick.”

                “But I never said they shouldn’t be mates.” Nappa said, staunchly, as though that made all the difference. “There is no helping who you attach yourself to.” He insisted. “If your father were alive, he would agree with me.”

                “I already told you, Nappa, I hope my father is rotting in hell.” Vegeta jumped up, the pressures on his mind obviously trying his patience. “Besides, the father I remember would not appreciate his heir having any kind of attachment to a weak, mutt-blooded alien.”

                “There are no saiyan females, Vegeta.” Nappa reminded his prince gently. “What is taint, if this is the only way for saiyan blood to survive?”

“This is ridiculous, and you are full of shit. I don’t want this, I will not have it. If you won’t tell me how to get rid of her, I will figure it out myself.” Vegeta turned and stalked away, leaving the other three staring after him.

                “Imagine, Vegeta, what you would do, if she was dead.” Nappa said to his back. Vegeta kept walking, but Radditz felt a sudden, unexpected, and terribly uncomfortable sensation course through his veins. He felt suddenly shaken to the core.

                “Nappa,” Radditz said candidly, after the door slammed shut behind their furious leader, “Is it possible for a male saiyan to bind himself to another male?”

*

                Vegeta did not sleep well that night, Nappa’s words ringing through his head. Every time he drifted off, it seemed he dreamed of her. The ones where she was alive in his arms unsettled him enough, the ones where she was dead... Vegeta had seen a lot of death in his time and never had it ever torn at him the way those dreams did. It didn’t make any sense, and her continued presence in his brain only served to make him more restless and angry. He tried to force her from his thoughts, but she just wouldn’t go. Disobedient bitch!

                He clutched at his hair with his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp, feeling so powerless as he lay alone in the darkness of his room. He wished he could turn back the clock and shut Nappa up before that whole asinine discussion took place. He didn’t want it to be true. Most of him, at least. Part of him? Fuck. The monster inside keened for her, raging within its confines, and he realized that the beast he’d long kept leashed in his mind had never felt so calm in his life, as in the short time period he’d been on Red Station. Even the thought of his identity leaking to Frieza hadn’t panicked him as much as it should have.

                He bolted upright, the covers falling from his naked chest to pool in his lap. The mole. His secret. Nobody knew of it yet. Gods of Vegetasei, he hadn’t even thought about it! Bulma must have had it under control, he thought, and the idea soothed his pounding heart. She was smart, she’d have taken care of it, wouldn’t she have? Guiltily, he looked at the computer sitting on his desk. She’d tried to contact him several times and he’d ignored her comm requests. She’d sent him messages, and he’d deleted them. No more, he vowed. He didn’t want to feel whatever it was he felt for her and he was determined to rid himself of the attachment for her, but to ignore her completely was harmful to his operations as Vengeance. He needed her intelligence and quick wit, and her damnable talent with machines, on his side. Vaulting from his bed, he logged in to his secret account and was pleased to see that his inbox contained messages from Blue. He clicked on one that was labelled “Ven. IMPORTANT. MUST READ.”

                “ _Dear Assface,_ ” it read, and he cringed and closed it. So maybe she was still mad.

*

                Yes, Bulma was mad, but not so much at Vegeta anymore...well, sure she was mad at him still, but that particular fury was warming on the back burner, while her frustration with Dr. Gero was at the point of meltdown. She was tired – exhausted, really – and the inconsiderate old bugger still hadn’t gone to bed. Really, how was she supposed to sneak into his lab and hack into his computer if he was up puttering around in there all night? She glanced at her watch and was dismayed to find that only three minutes had elapsed since she’d last checked, even though it felt to her as though a half an hour had easily slid by.

                “Two-twelve in the morning.” Bulma muttered to herself. “What the hell is he _doing_ in there?” She rolled her eyes and adjusted her position on the couch. Bitterly, she changed the channel on the television, looking for something decent to keep her awake. Her plan had been to appear as though she’d fallen asleep on the couch watching tv so she could be sure when Gero left, but if he didn’t come out soon, she really was going to conk out!

                The sudden swoosh of a door opening caught her by surprise, and she hastily screwed her eyes shut and did her best to appear limp. She’d never been a good fake-snorer, plus she didn’t want to the self-important jerk to think she snored, so she simply forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly, even though her heart was pounding with nerves. Dr. Gero was not a stupid man, and he’d likely not be pleased to find her snooping about in his private laboratory. Luckily, he didn’t appear to even spare her a look, as his footsteps made slowly toward the living quarters of the station. Bulma waited until she could no longer hear his heavy boots on the floor, and then counted to one hundred just to be safe, before bolting stealthily over to his door.

                Of course it was locked, but Bulma was no spring chicken and she’d come prepared. With the aid of a pocket screwdriver, she had the electronic door panel off in minutes, and after carefully connecting a few wires, the door slid open. “Think you can keep me out, do you Gero?” She laughed. “Well think again, old man.” She stuck her foot in the door opening and reset the lock before replacing the panel. The door’s auto-close mechanism was thwarted by her fuzzy slipper, and she shoved it open just enough to slip through before it shut itself again. She’d been in Gero’s lab a few times before, but never without the doctor himself, and the place was significantly creepier when visited alone. Dim light from the various machines and displays illuminated the place well enough, but she still had to squint at the floor as she walked to avoid tripping over the tangles of wire and cords, and the various bits and bobs scattered about. Android parts hung from the ceiling and from the walls – she recognized a duplicate of Sixteen’s right arm – and she shuddered, feeling as though she’d stepped into some twisted taxidermist’s lair. “Machine arms,” she reminded herself, “not flesh and blood. Ahh, here we go!” She chirped, finally coming to the central desk where Dr. Gero’s computer sat.

                Fishing in her pocket, she pulled out one of her little ghost drives and plugged it in before quickly entering the command to search for mail messages, including traces of deleted files. While the little drive worked its magic, Bulma looked idly around, her curiosity finally overcoming good manners. She got up and poked around a little, peeking at all the doctor’s secret projects. Sixteen’s spare arm intrigued her the most; in the three years she’d known the quiet giant, she’d never worked up the nerve to ask him if she could examine him. Gingerly, she lifted the arm from its bracket on the wall and opened the outer casing to see the network of circuits within. She was surprised to find that the design closely mimicked the construction of a real human hand, complete with steel-cable tendons in the forearm that, when pushed, pulled the fingers in toward the palm. Gero was no slob, that was certain.

                As she replaced the arm in its bracket, an odd bluish glow coming from the furthest reaches of the lab caught her eye. She squinted in that direction, trying to figure out what about that particular luminance seemed so familiar, when she realized that it was the same odd light that regeneration fluid tended to give off in an active tank. It was too much to resist! She’d all but forgotten the puzzle of the regeneration tanks, but now that the knowledge was in her reach, well, she took a hasty glance at the computer to see that the ghost drive was still going, and then quickly scurried to the back of the crowded lab. Excitedly, she dodged piles of parts and stacks of boxes, lumpy totems shrouded in tarps, some taller than she, until she rounded the final corner and stopped short.

                Bulma stifled a shriek with her hand, staggering back at the shock of seeing the two dismembered bodies, floating side by side in twin tanks, their eerie blue glow casting a sinister light on the various walls of junk that hid them from view. When the hands clamped over her shoulders, she really did scream before wrenching herself forward and out of their grasp. She whirled to look into the icy, emotionless eyes of her father’s old colleague. He was scowling, the expression lending even less charm than usual to his unattractive face.

                “You’re sick!” Bulma shouted, unable to control the outburst, but instead of being offended, Gero merely laughed.

                “Look again, my dear.” He sneered, gesturing toward the tanks. “Your impulsiveness and lack of attention to detail is utterly shameful.” Dr. Gero hobbled past her, reaching for a dial to turn up the dim lighting above the tanks. Bulma blinked painfully in the sudden light, but she kept her eyes on the old man, every nerve in her body singing with the urge to run. She’d seen enough horror movies; when the creep corners you, you don’t stand and chat! “Oh please,” he scoffed, interpreting her thoughts as though they were written plainly on her face, “don’t be so paranoid, girl Briefs. You’ve invaded my space, you may as well have a look.” He placed a hand tenderly against the surface of one tank, and Bulma was surprised to see the expression on his face soften a little.

                Swallowing her stomach, Bulma turned to look and was surprised once she’d gotten past her initial revulsion. Why, they weren’t dismembered bodies after all; they were half formed bodies, plainly those missing limbs had yet to exist. She stepped up to the glass and peered into the murky depths, her mind recoiling where the young woman’s torso ended suddenly below the belly button. What was there of her was nude, her small breasts capped by pink nipples that stared out, unabashed. Her companion in the other tank was more fully formed, with an intact pelvis and the beginning stumps of thighs, and she remembered with sudden embarrassment, her crass joke about Gero crafting the perfect mechanical penis for Sixteen.

                “What...” She breathed, watching the strange swirl of particles through the regeneration fluid. That was definitely not normal.

                “Nanotechnology.” Gero smiled up at the sleeping half-person. “Their bodies are made of tiny mechanical cells, each imprinted as a human stem cell is, with all of the necessary DNA to form them. The regeneration tank is like the womb, but better.” He cast a disparaging look at Bulma’s stomach. “Quicker, smarter, nothing can go wrong. When they are complete, they will be indistinguishable from biologically formed human beings.” He spoke softly, as though he was in awe of his own creations. “And yet they will be stronger, faster, smarter than any of those so-called warriors from Earth.” He laughed a little, and Bulma stepped back. “You know, they were meant to destroy that place. They were going to take out my enemies and carve the Earth to my specifications...I was going to be King.”

                “And...now?” Bulma asked, swallowing her fears. Plainly he wasn’t intending to hurt her.

                “And now, they will destroy that slimy bastard Frieza, who took my planet away from me!” Dr. Gero shrugged, as though they were discussing the mornings’ breakfast. “Won’t you, pretties?” He turned sweet eyes on the twin tanks. “My perfect children, Seventeen and Eighteen.” He smiled beatifically up at their sleeping faces, fatherly pride beaming out of every pore.

 In the distance, the ghost drive chimed to let Bulma know it had completed its search of Dr. Gero’s computer, and the old man let out a bitter laugh. “Go check your little toy, Bulma.” He sneered, not bothering to look at her. “And see for yourself that I am not your traitor, though one must wonder at the way _you_ sneak around.” He cocked an eyebrow, but Bulma ignored him and slunk away from the tanks. When she reached the computer, she found that he’d indeed been telling the truth; the only correspondence the drive had turned up was between Gero and various suppliers – nothing personal, nothing denoting a need for human contact beyond his bimonthly conversations with Bulma or her father. She took the drive and left, feeling defeated.  

“Bulma,” Gero called, just as she was stepping through the door. His eyes shone in the darkness, as though full of regeneration fluid. “Enter my lab again, uninvited, and I will kill you. Do not think that I am kidding.”

Bulma stepped out without looking back and let the door shut behind her. When she heard the lock shift into place, her shaking legs finally gave out and she collapsed against the wall and slid gratefully to the floor.

*

*

                Goku stared down at the dead man, his hands shaking as the stench of loosed bowels assaulted his nose. It was another slave, a nasty, selfish little man by the name of Caldo, who’d been on their work crew. Goku heard breathing beside him and knew that Piccolo was there, ever calm and ever constant. “I didn’t mean it.” He said quietly, turning to his friend with wide eyes. “He tried to take my food, but I really didn’t mean it.” Goku sobbed suddenly, as though the sound had been trying to escape his throat for ages, and Piccolo’s hands shot out to grasp his shoulders, clawed fingers digging ever so slightly into the skin. “It just happened.” He said, and Piccolo shook him briefly.

                “Snap out of it.” He ordered, tugging Goku roughly away from the spreading pool of urine around the corpse. “What’s done is done.”

                “I’m going to get in trouble, aren’t I?” Goku couldn’t stop staring at the dead man. “I’m going to go to hell now.”

                “Not if we get away from here and get back to work, you won’t.” Piccolo urged his friend forward with a tug. Goku stumbled but regained his balance quickly enough, trudging after Piccolo. “Look, stop that.” The green man snapped when he saw tears begin to form at the corners of Goku’s eyes. “Nobody will care, Goku. Just get back to work and the guards won’t care. They won’t even know it was you.”

                “But I’ll know.” Goku said stubbornly, even as he followed along.

                “He tried to take your food, remember?”

                “I didn’t mean to kill him. I only wanted my food.” Goku said, mournfully.

                “Which I picked up for you.” Piccolo gestured to the plate he’d left sitting on a nearby rock. Nobody had dared to touch it after seeing their cheerful workmate snap so suddenly. “Come on and eat it. You need your strength.”

                “I have too much strength,” Goku said, his glassy eyes staring forward as he remembered how easily Caldo’s neck had snapped beneath his pressing fingers, how satisfying it had been to watch the life leach out of the man. Goku was very disturbed to find that on some level, he’d enjoyed it. Piccolo thrust the plate into his hands and he looked distastefully down at it, no longer so desperate to consume it as he had been only moments before.

                “Eat.” Piccolo commanded and Goku took a bite, then another and another, his mammoth appetite having quickly returned. When he was finished, he looked over to where he knew Caldo’s body lay, hidden from view by a pile of rocks, and wondered how that creature’s flesh would taste. Probably better than the slop he was being fed every day, he thought, looking down at the empty plate. And Caldo wasn’t even a humanoid – he was a shaggy creature, more reminiscent of a bear than a man. Goku had eaten bear meat. This would be no different, would it?

                Piccolo watched the gleam in Goku’s eyes with growing unease. There was something dark in that gaze, something off that he’d never seen displayed there. When the other man stood abruptly, looking hungrily in the direction of the hidden corpse, Piccolo quickly put himself in Goku’s path, placing one long-fingered hand on his friend’s chest to stall him. “We have to get back to work now, quickly.” Piccolo urged, his hand moving to grip Goku’s sun-darkened arm. “Before the guards catch us.” He tugged, setting Goku off balance again, and the manoeuvre was enough to distract the earthling long enough that he forgot his other train of thought.

                “Yes.” Goku said, allowing himself to be tugged along. “Back to work.”

 It wasn’t long before one of the guards stumbled across the body, its presence made obvious by the rising smell of sun-baked shit. Two nearby slaves were called to carry it away, but no effort was made to find out who had killed the man, or to punish anyone. Piccolo patted him on the back after the corpse was out of sight, and Goku sighed with relief. He did his best to put the incident out of his mind and congratulated himself at the end of the day, when he realized he’d only thought about the dead man twice more.

                That night he dreamt that he was a monster, a great, furry beast the size of a mountain. In his dream he roared and stomped and crushed and ate, and ate and ate, until he realized that it was people he was eating, and that it was Chichi who was clamped in his giant fist, the next morsel to be tossed carelessly into his mouth. She screamed at him, accused him of eating their son, with tears running down her pretty face. He tried to tell her that was a lie, that he hadn’t eaten Gohan, but when he looked around, there was no black-eyed child to be found. Worried, he stomped around a shining, empty city, looking for Gohan. He looked for three whole days and when he knew that his son was not in the city, he sat down and cried, his great bottom crushing a house where he plopped down. He was tired and sore and he was ever so hungry, and there was this tasty little morsel in his hand that he had been carrying around with him, and suddenly he couldn’t remember why it was so important not to eat this one, so he popped it into his mouth and swallowed her whole.

                Goku awoke covered with sweat, his throat raw and his tongue tasting of his wife.

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	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: All I have to say is THANK YOU to everyone who’s still reading! Between the two sites, we’ve hit 300 reviews! That’s amazing! Thank you so much!!

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PRESENT DAY

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                Zarbon stood to the left of Frieza’s chair, watching as the dainty overlord of this quadrant of the universe tapped long black nails impatiently against his armrest. Vegeta was late, as usual, though the saiyan always seemed to have some perfectly innocuous excuse as to why his tardiness was not a reflection of his monumental respect for their master. He rolled his eyes, wondering just exactly what it was that the tyrant saw in that repulsive little man that he allowed such insolence time and time again. Zarbon’s lip curled in disgust at the jealousy that curdled his stomach; he was not so favoured as the sayain princeling and was berated by his lord for showing up anything but early.

                Zarbon could not recall if he had always hated the creature to his right with such fire as he did now, and he did not think so. There had been a time when he was young and ambitious, so hungry for power that he did not see the deceit behind the pretty charade. He’d admired the self-proclaimed emperor and had willingly bowed, proudly fought, and happily shared the master’s bed. He couldn’t recall when it had changed, only knew that his loathing for the youngest Cold had grown to such proportions that he often feared he might suffocate with it. The openness with which Vegeta hated Frieza was enviable and frustrating to the ever-bowing Zarbon, who knew that if he so much as dared to treat the master with even a tenth of the disrespect that Vegeta did, it would be his death. A satisfying one though...still, he wasn’t ready to die yet, so he’d leave the games to Vegeta.

                _Speak of the Devil_ , Zarbon thought as the prince sauntered in, exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds late. Not so much as to be overtly rude, just enough to get in a dig. The green man couldn’t help but to admire such tenacity, even if it tore at his own pride to do so.

                “Princeling.” Frieza greeted the Saiyan’s half-there bow with ice in his voice.

                “My Lord.” Vegeta inclined his head and straightened back up without being told to do so. His eyes flickered to Zarbon and their gazes met for a moment. Vegeta raised an eyebrow, and Zarbon felt a sudden, paralyzing fear that perhaps the prince could tell, could see or smell or somehow sense their kinship in hatred of the white snake between them. Was it truth, or simply paranoia in his own mind? Schooling his features, he merely returned the impertinent look. Vegeta’s eyes flickered back to the master’s, their split-second connection so suddenly done with.

                “What have you to report?” Frieza asked, without preamble. Zarbon watched Vegeta straighten a little, the saiyan wisely interpreting their emperor’s nasty mood. Things had not been going terribly well for Frieza lately, and Vegeta was smart enough to see that and tread carefully.

                “I believe I am making progress.” Vegeta said, simply. “I have made contact with those who are frequent allies of Vengeance, and though I have yet to meet someone who knows his true identity, it is only a matter of time before we are able to apprehend him during one of his attacks.”

                “Who are these people?” Frieza demanded, and Zarbon caught the barest hint of unease cross Vegeta’s face.

                “I think it unwise to say, my Lord. Should word get back to them, the resistance will close ranks and my task will be doubly hard. We are dealing with the kind of fools who do not quake in the face of death.”

                “Is that why you took the tracking device from your pod?” The lizard sat forward, licking his lips as a hunter might, in anticipation of the kill. He was obviously hoping to have caught the Saiyan off guard.

                “Partly.” Vegeta cocked his head, plainly having expected the question. Zarbon himself was surprised. He hadn’t told Frieza about that, and the hedonistic creature hardly ever bothered to check into such boring matters himself. He wondered who’d told. Perhaps the docksmen had done a thorough checkup on the prince’s pod. “I thought it best that no one knew where I was, considering the precarious situation we find ourselves in.”

                “What precarious situation?” Frieza sat back, pouting. He’d plainly hoped to catch the saiyan in some sort of disobedient behaviour and was disappointed at the simple answer.

                “Why, the fact of the leak in our intelligence, sir.” Vegeta said, matter of factly, with just the right hint of incredulity as to imply that such a thing should be widely known. “My Lord, how else do you think Vengeance has managed to thwart us at every turn? He has someone on the inside.” Vegeta shrugged. “And I believe this person must have access to many trusted areas of your esteemed operation, in order to feed the rebels the information that they obviously possess.”

                “Ugh, you sound like Ginyu,” Frieza groaned, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Did you two rehearse the same speech?”

                “Sir?”

                “He also suspects someone on the inside, which is why he will not tell me who in the resistance he is impersonating.” Frieza continued, blessedly unaware of the sudden stiffness in Vegeta’s body. Ginyu? Why hadn’t he known! Clever bastard! “Imagine, being unaware of the activities of my own operatives!” Purple eyes focused pointedly on Vegeta, and Zarbon had to admire the bland look they received in return. If Vegeta was up to something, he thought, the saiyan was hiding it extremely well. And knowing Vegeta as he did, he was almost certain that something was in the works. Unlike Frieza, whose vain eyes saw the saiyans as too stupid for subterfuge, Zarbon had spent years watching the canny young prince, and knew what he was capable of.

                “Sire,” Zarbon interjected, with just the right amount of veneration in his voice, “perhaps Vegeta and Ginyu have the right of it.” He smiled his most self-effacing smile, communicating to his liege that he was aware of how brash he was being, how foolish he was to dare suggest something contrary.  Even at his most volatile, the Icejin was always susceptible to flattery. “If Vegeta’s words are true,” he raised an eyebrow, as though this were dubious, “then he has made much more progress in the past month than in all the time we have been chasing after Vengeance in the open.”

                “You, too?” Frieza whined, turning his gaze toward his most trusted underling. “Fine.” He shrugged, and Vegeta was surprised at Frieza’s easy acquiescence to Zarbon’s suggestion. He’d come prepared to sway the Icejin’s mind with facts and reason, but had he known that Frieza would be so influenced by Zarbon’s surprise support, he’d not have wasted so much time preparing his arguments. “Perhaps next I’ll be turning my throne over to you three as well.” The tyrant pouted, though he waved Vegeta away with a flick of his fingers, quickly having grown bored with the discussion. So long as the little monkey produced results, Frieza really didn’t care how they came about. “I’ll be watching you though, princeling.” He sneered as Vegeta turned to leave the room. “So don’t fuck this up. I want Vengeance dead!”

                “Of course, Lord Frieza,” Vegeta replied calmly, stopping mid stride but not bothering to turn and face his master. “Your wish is my command.”

                ‘ _Ginyu, Ginyu, Ginyu!_ ’ His mind raced, as he strode purposefully through the halls of Frieza’s mothership, the heels of his boots clanging against the metal floor and echoing round him. He was feeling something akin to panic, trying to replay in his mind everything that had happened during his stay on Red Station, but if he was being honest, he’d been too busy sniffing after Bulma to pay much attention to anything else. He’d been sort of suspicious of the three-eyed earthling, Tien, he recalled, and of course there was the creepy old scientist who never left his labs. Both of them had seemed to avoid the Saiyans like the plague...but could one of them have been doing so in an effort not to be found out as Ginyu?

                He shared the newfound bit of information with the other saiyans as soon as he reached their quarters.

                “We would have known.” Nappa said, stubbornly. “Wouldn’t we have? We can sense Ki now.”

                “But we’ve got jack shit to compare it to,” Radditz pointed out, “since we didn’t know what Tien or Ginyu or Gero’s power felt like before.” Then, turning to Gohan, “Kid, did that feel like the same people?”

                “I...I don’t know.” Gohan looked around the room, wishing he could offer his comrades some comfort. This was as close to sheer breakdown as he’d ever seen amongst the confident group. “I’d never met Dr. Gero or Tien before. Nothing about anyone on the ship felt particularly _wrong_ to me, but would we even know?” Gohan asked. “I mean, if this Ginyu guy takes people’s bodies, does he assume their ki patterns as well or does his come with him? Krillin said that ki is a spiritual force, but it’s very grounded in physical strength.”

                “Shit.” Radditz cursed, quickly echoed by the other two adults.

                “As far as I am aware, Ginyu’s strength is limited by that of his body. I was young when he took his current form, but I was there.” Vegeta said, and Nappa sat silently, nodding. He’d not been present at the time, but the prince had told him of it, afterward.

                “You said he went from a weaker body to a stronger one,” Nappa said, “but that it seemed like he was having trouble getting used to it.”

                “Yes,” Vegeta nodded, wishing that he’d been able to feel ki all his life. “He had to figure out his new body, to unlock the mechanisms of power that he was unused to. All I knew was that suddenly he had more power though; I’d no idea what it felt like.”

                “Which puts us back at square one.” Radditz sighed, but Vegeta suddenly sat up straighter.

                “Krillin.” He gasped, shooting out of his chair and onto his feet, his tail puffed stiffly behind him.

                “Who?” Nappa asked, but Gohan had leapt out of his chair as well, having quickly caught onto Vegeta’s idea.

                “Monk!” He shouted, and a look of comprehension appeared on Nappa’s face.

                “He fought Tien before.” Vegeta said, pointing at Gohan. “You told us, in the Boudokai, yes?” Gohan nodded frantically. “So he should know if Tien feels different than before. He told us himself that he’d been training onboard Red Station with the three-eyes, so he should have noticed a change!”

                “True.” It was Radditz’s turn to have a little insight. “But even if he is Ginyu, that still leaves us wondering why the hell he hasn’t ratted us out yet.”

                “Perhaps he means to join us?” Nappa put forth, but Radditz shook his head a little.

                “Ginyu hates Vegeta, and he doesn’t hate Frieza more, not like Zarbon does.” Radditz scratched his chin, then his cheeks reddened when he noticed everyone staring at him, puzzled. “What? He’s hot, okay? I stare at him a lot, and I’ve seen how hard he works to keep that calm on his face. He hates Frieza just as much as we do, I think.”

                “Bullshit.” Nappa spat.

                “No, I think Radditz might actually be right, for once.” Vegeta said, eyebrow raised at the older man’s sudden show of intelligence. He wasn’t aware that Radditz actually paid so much attention to the world around him...then again, he’d only noticed because he was ogling Zarbon, so Vegeta wasn’t sure if it should count for much. In fact, maybe it deserved minus points for being so disturbing...

                “I wouldn’t like someone who treated me like Frieza treats Zarbon.” Gohan said simply, blessedly unencumbered by the mental images that Vegeta was suffering from. It wasn’t that Vegeta had a problem with homosexuality, it was just that he had a problem with Zarbon. He didn’t want to touch or even look at anyone who’d willingly done it with Frieza.

                “I think Zarbon’s a bit of a masochist, anyway.” Radditz said, a little too enthusiastically. Vegeta shook his head violently, shaking the images right out. Even Gohan grimaced a little – he’d made the mistake before of asking his uncle what _S and M_ meant after hearing some of the older boys making jokes. Radditz, with his usual lack of boundaries and tact, had explained it in full detail, potentially scarring the 7 year old’s brain in a brand new way. It had been hard enough for Gohan to accept that sometimes it was okay to inflict pain upon people – the idea that some people actually liked it was dizzying and – with his basic and sheltered knowledge of sex – confusing.

                “Enough talk of Zarbon.” Vegeta snapped, and Raddtiz ducked his head sheepishly.

                “It’s not that I actually want him...” the long-haired saiyan muttered his eyes glued to the floor so as to avoid Vegeta’s glare. “It’s just that he’s good to look at.”

                “Well, one of these days we’ll get him to transform for you.” Vegeta growled, and Radditz pouted. “Now everybody shut up. We have work to do.” He paused. “Well, _I_ have work to do. You three do whatever. Do something productive.” He said, waving a gloved hand in dismissal as he stalked into his bedroom to use the comm-link.

*

                Krillin stared at Tien’s red face from across the training mat, waiting for the attack that he knew would come hurtling at him any second now. The shock of his conversation with Vengeance had yet to leave him, and he was being extra cautious in the face of what the older man had said. He’d heard of Ginyu, of course. Everyone had heard of the elite squad, the cream of Frieza’s crop, who’s perfectly synchronized gymnastic routines struck fear into the hearts of billions. Never before had Krillin known, however, that Ginyu’s most guarded secret was the art of body snatching, and that he currently inhabited the body of someone in the resistance. Krillin swallowed and met Tien’s gaze. Vegeta suspected the man across the mat, and his paranoia had quickly spread through Krillin’s mind.

                Krillin leapt to the side as Tien finally made his move, dodging a kick that was much weaker than something he’d expect from one of the most powerful beings in the universe. Weaker even than he’d have expected from Tien. _Trap!_ His mind shrieked and he ducked just in time to avoid being pummelled in the face.

                “Something on your mind, Krillin?” Tien panted as the smaller man hopped back several feet. “You seem distracted.”

                “Err...um, no.” Krillin laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his head with one sweaty palm as he did so. Tien cocked his head to the side, certain that the monk was hiding something, but uncertain as to what. Krillin launched forward, hoping to derail the triclops’ train of thought. He wished Bulma was around – she’d know what to do for sure – but she and Puar had left that very morning for Chisal to pick up Dr. Gero’s package and maybe sneak in a visit with Guru if they had a chance. He was very jealous not to be going too, but Bulma had insisted that at least one of them had to stay to keep an eye on things, as they still hadn’t let anyone else in on the potential presence of a traitor. He’d been voted out because, it seemed, Puar and Bulma had suddenly become fast friends, always whispering and giggling together, like schoolgirls discussing which boys they had crushes on. Then again, if the trip was going to be one long session of truth or dare, Krillin figured it was probably better that he hadn’t gone.

                “You sure?” Tien puffed between punches, looking irritated. “You can tell me stuff, you know.”

                “It’s nothing, I swear it.” Krillin crossed his heart with one hand, while using the other to block the knee that was headed for his stomach. “Hey, let’s power up and fight for real!” He suggested, hoping that he’d be able to tell if there was a difference in Tien’s ki from when he’d felt it so many years ago at the Tenkaichi Boudokai. He wished he’d had the forethought to pay more attention, but Goku had been the assassin’s target and Krillin had been content to let them have at it.

                “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tien said, drawing back, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. “I haven’t powered up since...a very long time.”

                “Aww, c’mon! It’ll be fun. Work the rust out of your system.” Krillin bounced on the balls of his feet, hoping he wasn’t being too obvious. Tien shook his head no, and backed respectfully out of the training ring.

                “No,” he repeated, “not today.”

                “Ahh...sure, buddy.” Krillin watched him slip his shoes on and beat a hasty retreat, a great sensation of unease building in his belly. Did Tien know that something would be revealed if he powered up? Did Ginyu even know about the ability to sense power levels? He hadn’t been there during the training session; would he realize that the nature of someone’s power could be felt, in addition to its strength? Vegeta and the other Saiyans hadn’t ever heard of it from anyone in the army and Vegeta was high enough up in the ranks that Krillin presumed he’d be privy to most of the big secrets. He’d been entrusted with rooting out and destroying Frieza’s number one enemy, hadn’t he?

                Even under the stressful circumstances he found himself in, the thought made Krillin grin a little, as it always did. He’d never met Frieza, of course, but he’d heard enough to know that they wouldn’t exactly be pals. The idea of Vegeta, that arrogant, self-assured, prick of a man leading the whole empire on a wild goose chase was a good one. It was something he’d never have believed if he didn’t know firsthand, and he couldn’t help but to be impressed at the prince’s skill in pulling it off. It was no wonder the other saiyans worshipped him. Krillin could only dream of being so brave. Imagine standing up to someone like Frieza, when he wasn’t even sure he’d have the nerve to tell Vegeta that he hadn’t managed to get Tien to power up!

                Thinking about it, he realized that he and Tien never really went full-tilt when sparring. Thanks to Bulma, the training room was capable of withstanding some small blasts, but they all tended to be pretty damn careful anyway. Blowing a hole in the space-station wall wasn’t like blowing a hole in one’s dojo wall back on Earth. If the structural integrity of the ship was compromised, death was the likely outcome. Add to that Tien’s odd reluctance to go all out, and Krillin realized that they’d only really ever engaged in hand to hand sparring. Naturally, their kis raised a little during such activity but Krillin had never noticed anything odd about it, and he wasn’t sure if that meant that Tien was Tien, or that he needed to power up more.

                Frowning, Krillin grabbed his towel and trudged to the changing room, rubbing the light sheen of sweat from his bald head as he went. _There has to be another way_ , he thought as he turned on the shower, jumping back to avoid the first few seconds of icy-cold spray. Now, Krillin had seen a lot of body-snatcher movies, and he knew that in order to find someone out, you have to trick them into answering a question that only the real owner of the body would know. The problem in that solution, he thought, shrugging out of his clothes and stepping into the hot water, was that he really hadn’t known Tien very well on Earth. Krillin didn’t know Tien’s mother’s name, or who his first kiss was. He didn’t know Tien’s favourite food or his least favourite television show. He hardly even knew the man enough to tell if his ki was the same one or not! They’d been enemies at worst and awkward acquaintances at best. What could he ask?

                And then, to throw a wrench into his plans, what sort of knowledge did Ginyu have about the bodies he took over? Did he meet people and make them spill their secrets beforehand? Did he have access to their memories, or did they get kicked out with the soul? If he’d been smart, Krillin thought, he would have asked Vegeta these questions beforehand. And if Vegeta was smart, he would have anticipated them! The saiyan prince must not have seen a lot of B-rated horror movies, or he’d never have suggested the power-level thing.

                As he soaped up his balls, he wished Bulma were around. Not for that reason, of course. He was under no illusions that Bulma would ever touch his balls. He was just stumped, and even if Bulma couldn’t come up with anything either, at least he’d have someone to be stumped with. If a genius couldn’t figure it out, then he wouldn’t feel so helpless himself.

*

*

                Bulma was stepping out of the transport ship, stretching cramped limps, just as Dende came running out of the dome-shaped hut, his white robes flapping and tangling round his legs. “Bulma!” He shouted, skidding to a stop just before he bowled her over. “And Puar! I was not aware that you were coming!” He reached up and grasped Bulma’s hand in his smooth fingers, as though to tug her forward toward the house. “Guru will be pleased.”

                “I hope so.” Bulma smiled and allowed herself to be led inside. “I didn’t exactly tell him that we were coming.”

                “Do not be silly, Bulma. Guru is always happy to see his friends.”

                “Right you are, young Dende.” Guru chuckled from the other room, having overheard their conversation. “What are you waiting for? Come and say hello to an old man.” He beckoned, and Bulma and Puar quickened their pace, slinking into his chamber with shy smiles.

                “I know we shouldn’t just drop in...” Bulma began, “...but,” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders.

                “But sometimes one must see one’s friends.” Guru finished for her, his smile wide and a twinkle in his old eyes. Bulma nodded gratefully and he chuckled to himself for a moment before sending Dende for water and some fruit for their guests. “Accept my apologies; had I known you were coming, perhaps we could have had something else brought in.” Guru gestured toward the hastily prepared platter than Dende came scrambling back with. Bulma’s mouth watered at the array of fruits, so freshly plucked that their stems still leaked sap from the breakage.

                “No,” she muttered around a juicy mouthful, while Puar’s cheeks flamed at his friend’s lack of manners.

                “It’s wonderful.” He supplied, waiting to take a bite of his own food until he’d finished speaking. Bulma nodded her agreement and was reaching for another piece just as Nail walked in.

                “I was wondering who’d arrived.” He poured himself a gourd of water and leaned forward, his hand darting out as though to reach for a piece of fruit before pulling back. “It always looks so satisfying.” He shrugged, catching Bulma’s odd look. “I tried eating the fruit once,” Nail grimaced sheepishly, “and it did not turn out well. Yet it is natural to reach for what others are enjoying, yes?” He sat back and sipped his water.

                “I suppose that’s true.” Bulma shrugged and popped another piece of the sweet, juicy melon into her mouth.

                “Speaking of enjoyment,” Guru chuckled to himself, “I have a gift for you Bulma, delivered only yesterday.

                “A gift for me?” Bulma asked, her curiosity piqued. “Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

                “Oh, it’s not from me, my dear girl, only the sender thought perhaps you might not be so receptive if he were to bring it in person.” Guru chuckled and directed her around the corner into Dende’s small bedroom, where a large crate with all the markings of a brand-new regeneration tank sat, unapologetically taking up all of the child’s space.

                “It’s in my room ‘cause we didn’t have anywhere else to put it, and Guru didn’t want to leave it outside.” Dende said, appearing at her elbow. “But don’t worry, I don’t mind.” He smiled up at her, his antennae bobbing with the motion of his head, and she grinned back down.

                “It’s just like him, not to think of how this would inconvenience you.” She sighed dramatically, but her pleasure was palpable as she bent to examine the stamps on the crate. He’d gotten her a much better model than the one he’d broken.

                “So it is from Vengeance, then?” Dende asked, then quickly looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “Guru wouldn’t tell me; he said it was none of my business if a man gets a lady a present. What does that mean? A man and a lady? Nameks only have men but Guru says that some kinds of people have two different types. Why?”

                “Umm…” Bulma’s jaw worked, but no sound was coming out. Did she really have to try and explain the birds and the bees to a kid who had no concept of male and female? Come to think of it, did Nameks even have the parts required for such a discussion to make sense? “This isn’t _that_ type of gift.” Bulma said, dodging the question entirely. “Ve…ngeance broke our regeneration tank at Red Station, so he promised to replace it.”

                “Vengeance was on Red Station?” Nail was standing in the doorway, and Bulma’s head jerked up to see him glaring at her, suspicion in his eyes. She was glad she’d caught herself – she’d almost said his name out loud and though she trusted the Nameks, she wasn’t quite sure who knew what about Vegeta. She didn’t want to be the one to spill the beans that the Saiyan had been so carefully guarding.

                “Briefly.” Bulma said, standing up to her full height. She wondered if she’d ever stop being so uneasy around the tall Namek. His resemblance to Piccolo was uncanny and when she looked at him she couldn’t help but to remember all the destruction that the so-called devil had caused on Earth. Nail squinted at her, plainly unhappy to discover that more secrets were being kept from him. He opened his mouth, as though to say something, but looked to Dende, standing innocently beside the blue-haired earthling, and shut it again. He stepped aside to allow them back into Guru’s sitting room, and did not miss the way Dende’s hand sought out the woman’s as they passed him.

                Much later that night – into the wee hours of the morning, actually – when everyone else was abed and Bulma’s roiling thoughts kept her from sleep, she crept into the tiny room that served as a kitchen when guests were about, hoping perhaps for some kind of a snack. She longed for cookies and a cup of warm milk, but Guru kept no livestock of any kind, so a few pieces of leftover fruit was probably the best that she could hope for. He stomach was gurgling for something a little more substantial but her brain knew she was better off with the fruit, half sick with hunger, and the other half with thoughts brought up by that damn regeneration tank. Her period was very late and she was beginning to wonder how she’d tell her family and friends that she’d been knocked up by Vegeta. None of them, except Puar, even knew that she’d gone to bed with him and she hadn’t exactly planned to let that slip out. Yamcha had not been dead very long, and the thought of him sent guilt swimming through her veins. What would he think? Surely he was watching her, watching all of them. The thought made her queasy and she wasn’t so sure she wanted to eat anything anymore, even though she’d found the platter of leftovers from their earlier meal.

 Would her baby be born with a tail, she wondered suddenly. What about its eyes and hair? Gohan had favoured Goku quite heavily, but then Chichi was also possessed of dark eyes and hair. _Vegeta and I_ , she thought, _are polar opposites when it comes to colouring_. She sat on the counter and picked idly at the fruit, imagining all the combinations of skin and hair and eyes that her child might have. She grimaced; what if it had Vegeta’s hair but with her colour? What, God forbid, if it had his temper?

What if she didn’t even want it?

The problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted, and the clock was ticking. Soon the thing inside of her would no longer be a simple ball of cells, it would be a baby, and she didn’t even really know how long she had. Did Saiyans carry for 9 months like humans did? She seemed to recall Chichi once having said something about Gohan being born ridiculously premature, so much so that they thought they would lose him for sure, but was that a saiyan thing, or just a Gohan thing? By ‘ridiculous’, had Chichi meant months or simply an overdramatized couple of weeks?

“Bulma,” a voice called, and she jumped with surprise. “Come in here. I can feel your unrest all the way from here.”

“Guru?” Bulma hopped quickly off the counter and tiptoed into the sitting room, where Guru had dozed off in his chair. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The old namek raised a hand to wave her concern away, before motioning her to sit. “I am old, my dear. I doze where and when I need it, no more no less.” He waited until she had made herself comfortable before asking, “Now tell me, child, why you are wandering around my house in the middle of the night, with worry pouring out of your very being?”

“I think I’m pregnant.” She confessed without hesitation, finding that she was oddly pleased to be able to talk to the old man about it, even if she wasn’t sure that he would understand just how big a mess she found herself in. “And it’s Ven’s.” She said with a whoosh of air, as though she was dropping a bomb. Guru looked at her oddly for a moment, so she ploughed on, the words dropping out of her mouth at an unstoppable rate. “I mean, he’s not a bad guy I guess but I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be happy about this, and he’ll probably make a horrendous father if he decides to stick around, which he probably won’t because we’re not even really together and I don’t even know if I want it or not, or if I can even carry it to term without killing myself,” she took a deep breath, “because I don’t know if you realize how strong he is but it’s damn strong, and Gohan is only eight and he’s super powerful and Chichi had him okay, I guess, but she’s a lot stronger than I am, and she was in prime condition when she had him because she was fighting in the tournaments so it was probably a lot easier on her than it’s going to be on me because I’m really, really weak and I’m terrified that both of us will die in the middle of childbirth like it’s the olden days or something when they didn’t have real doctors, just quacks who went on and on about humours and thought that bleeding people half to death was a good idea, and it’s not like they were stupid or anything, it’s just that they didn’t know any better but still I can’t just sit here and be expec-“

“You aren’t pregnant.” Guru said, interrupting her. Bulma stopped mid-word, her mouth open and eyes wide. “You are not pregnant.” Guru repeated himself as he leaned forward, put two fingers under her chin and gently shut her jaw. “If you were pregnant, and especially if it was Vengeance’s child, I would have noticed it immediately. I sense a great many things about you, Bulma, but the presence of a life growing inside of you is not one of them.”

“You mean…” she trailed off and he nodded. “I’m not…” Bulma whispered, her hands fluttering briefly over her stomach. She sagged with relief, what felt like a lifetime’s worth of tension flowing out of her body. And yet still… “I don’t really know how to feel.” She admitted, “I’m relieved and I’m happy, but I think part of me kind of got used to the idea.”

“Such is life.” Guru said softly, and Bulma smiled weakly up at him. “Great joy and great disappointment all entwined together.”

“So…you’re sure?” Bulma asked, and Guru nodded slowly.

“Completely and totally.” He said, and Bulma jumped up, impulsively throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Thank you so much.” She whispered, slowly letting go and stepping away. “I guess I should go back to bed now though, being that my reason for being awake is gone now.” Guru laughed and bid her goodnight for the second time that day, and she tiptoed back to bed feeling lighter than air. Still though, she thought, placing a hand over her stomach, maybe she’d still make sure not to drink till her period finally made an appearance, just in case.

.

.

.

So no Trunks yet, I guess! I thought about sticking him in there, but I didn’t want to deal with that whole “You’re only with me because I’m pregnant!” type stuff. Next time, a bit of a treat for anyone who’s itching to see more Goku/Piccolo storyline!

 


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: I’d like to apologize in advance for the delay that will almost certainly occur between this chapter and the next. I’m a florist and Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. It’s going to kill me for sure, and my boyfriend will need a few days to gather up the dragonballs and resurrect me.

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PRESENT DAY

.

.

                “You seem to be in an unusually good mood.” Puar commented as he caught up to a humming Bulma. “Did your period finally come?” He whispered, looking furtively around to make sure Nail wasn’t within hearing range. Guru had decided that morning that since there was no way Bulma and Puar could manage the big crate containing their new regeneration tank all alone, he would send Nail along to help them load it into their ship. They were currently waiting outside Guru’s home for the transport service to show up and take them back to the city. Nail had taken the crate out and disappeared somewhere for the moment.

                “No, but Guru told me last night that I’m definitely not knocked up!” Bulma whispered back, her pleasure at this favourable turn of events palpable. “He said he’d be able to feel it...like maybe the baby would have had a ki already or something.”

                “I guess that makes sense, since Vegeta’s really strong. And remember how Dende could tell that I wasn’t in my natural form the first time we met? It’s creepy the way they know things.” Puar shrugged and perched on her shoulder. “Either way, that’s really good for you, isn’t it?”

                “Absolutely!” Bulma said, “For sure!” and Puar couldn’t help but notice that there was a forced note hiding behind her obvious happiness. He wondered if she’d maybe gotten a little attached to the idea of having a child, but quickly dismissed the thought. Even if she had, she’d quickly find something else to take up her attentions. Having a baby at this point was probably the worst thing that could have happened to her, and to the poor unborn kid. “But...uh...” her voice wavered, “I’m maybe still a little emotional about the whole thing.” Her smile was watery, and Puar sighed and patted her consolingly.

                “Just remember how terrified you were when we bought all those stupid tests, Bulma.” The little cat said. “And know that one day, when we’re not neck-deep in trouble all the time and when Frieza is no longer terrorizing the universe, you’ll be able to settle down and make all the babies you want.”

                “Pfft.” Bulma snorted and swiped quickly at her moist eyes. “Who says I want to make babies? All they do is poop and burp and scream. Who wants to deal with that?” She tossed her hair and Puar was nearly thrown from his perch.

                “Hey!” He cried, feigning irritation because he knew that Bulma was trying to get him to change the subject.

                “Oh, look!” Bulma pointed to a speck in the distance that was quickly becoming a blur. “The transport is coming!” She reached up and steadied the cat, who was once again wobbling thanks to her abrupt movements. Nail and Dende emerged from the house just as the carrier settled to the ground. Dende gave them both rushed hugs and extracted laughing promises to come back soon as Nail hefted the crate and shoved it on-board.

                “I wish I’d known it would be here.” Bulma cocked her head, watching the Namek’s muscles bulge with effort. “Then I could have maybe brought a huge capsule-box to hold it.

                “It is no trouble.” Nail puffed irritably as he shifted the awkward load in his arms. Bulma winced at the tone, so obviously contrary to the words coming out of his mouth. Nail probably had better things to do than play courier boy for Guru’s friends, and the fact that loading the box had become difficult made her feel a bit guilty. One of the corners had caught on something and the crate was stuck half-inside, half-outside of the doorway with no room to squeeze in and fix it.

                “I’ll help,” Puar said, quickly floating over and flattening himself to ease through one of the very small spaces between crate and doorframe. Once inside, he found the problem. “You’re stuck on a bolt that’s raised up in the floor!” he called out. “Lift the box about an inch up and you’ll clear it!” He jumped back as the box shifted, Nail following his instructions a little quicker than he’d expected. The crate slid the rest of the way easily and Puar was soon joined inside by his human friend and the stoic Namek. Dende waved frantically as the door whooshed shut behind them and the transport took off and sped back the way it had come, buildings and trees and plains whizzing past outside the windows. They journeyed in silence; Puar and Bulma were unnaturally quiet in the presence of the taciturn warrior so the trip seemed twice as long as it should have felt and everyone was relieved when the hulking machine finally slowed to a stop at the city’s spaceport.

                Bulma and Puar bolted quickly from the confining atmosphere of the transport while Nail took his time manoeuvring their precious cargo from the hold. By the time he’d gotten the cumbersome package free, Bulma had already fired up her ship and was in the middle of the pre-launch checklist. After instructing the ship’s computer to begin its own system check, Bulma skittered down to the cargo hold to help secure the precious machine. “I can’t thank you enough, Nail.” She said, digging about in a storage cupboard for some heavy-duty nylon straps. “We’d never have managed to get this thing here by ourselves. I owe you one.” She tossed him a strap and bent to clip one of her own to a metal ring mounted low on the wall.

                “So tell me who Vengeance is.” Nail said, and Bulma looked up in surprise to find him standing directly above her, trapping her quite effectively between the wall and the crate. She stared, openmouthed, a sudden bolt of unease racing down her spine. “You do owe me, after all.” He smiled in what Bulma assumed was an attempt at being pleasant, but the presence of his impressive canine teeth ruined the effect and set her nerves firing.

                “Guru said...” Bulma trailed off weakly as she tried to think of an excuse. If Nail didn’t already know, Guru must have had a reason, and it wasn’t really her place to go telling people’s secrets. Bulma Briefs might have been a huge gossip, but her mouth was welded shut when it really mattered.

                “Guru is old and weak, Bulma.” Nail sighed. “And I fear his mind is failing him. He guards his secrets well, but what good will that be if he dies without sharing them with the ones who need the knowledge most?” He backed off a step and Bulma found herself breathing a bit easier. She wished Puar were around, and wondered where the little cat had gone to. “Forgive me my impudence.” Nail looked quickly away, “But I fail to see why this is a secret only from me!”

                “Dende doesn’t know.” Bulma offered.

                “Dende is a child!” Nail exploded, throwing his arms wide. “He has no business knowing any of what we do, but Guru puts his trust in awkward places.” He glared at her, and she glared back, insulted.

                “Ve...” She caught herself, “Vengeance...we both swore to him. At least I did.” Bulma glanced sideways at the tank. “He is my ally and at times my friend, and his secrets are not mine to tell. Nor are they Guru’s.” She swallowed and crouched to pick up the strap before slipping between Nail and the crate, crossing to secure the strap high on the other side of the box. “I _am_ sorry, if it’s any consolation.” Bulma said, steeling herself to look into Nail’s eyes for a nerve-shattering moment before he looked away, growling his frustration. She turned and continued her work, and after a tense moment, he joined her. Working together, they had the crate secured in a matter of moments. Out of politeness, Bulma offered the Namek some cold water before he left, but he was irritated and anxious to be away from her. Bulma thanked him again, but he remained silent aside from a terse goodbye to herself and to Puar, who’d reappeared at her shoulder. Together, they watched him descend the steps and disappear in to the bustling crowd that was always swarming the docks.

                “He gives me the willies.” Puar said, after the ship’s hatch closed with a hiss of air.

                “Me too.” Bulma sighed. “I think it’s because he looks so much like Piccolo. And that guy was about as bad as they come.” She shivered, thinking of the old Demon King. “I mean, I guess I get that Piccolo was also a Namek so it makes sense that they’d look similar, but Guru and Dende don’t frighten me a bit. Nail though...yikes!”

                “Doesn’t help that he always seems like he’s pissed off about something.” Puar put in, and Bulma nodded in agreement.

                “Too true.” She said, plopping herself into the captain’s chair and strapping herself in. She tapped away at her control board, setting their course and going over the results of the automated pre-launch checklist while Puar went into another room to morph into his humanoid shape and put some clothes on, before returning and strapping himself into his own chair.

                “Ready.” He said, tightening his belts.

                “You sure you don’t want me to make a harness for your normal shape?” Bulma asked, looking over at her friend. “I mean, it must be kind of a nuisance for you to have to switch bodies every time we hit a bumpy patch.”

                “Nah...” Puar shook his head and blushed a little. “To be honest, it kind of gives me an excuse to be in this form.”

                “How many times have I got to tell you, you don’t need an excuse?” Bulma laughed and rolled her eyes.

                “Maybe not with _you_ ,” Puar crossed his arms over his chest. “But it still feels weird to just randomly be this shape when the others are around. I figure that if I use it in situations where it’s required, it’ll get them used to it before I just start randomly being your male lookalike.”

                “Whatever, Puar.” Bulma sighed and braced for takeoff, then raised her voice to be heard over the rumbling of the ship’s engines. “I just wish you’d be more comfortable being yourself, whichever form that happens to be!”

                Puar uncrossed his arms and reached out to grab her hand with one of his. “I’m getting there.” He smiled and squeezed her fingers, glad when she returned the gesture.

*

*

                “You and I are going to get out of here.” Piccolo said, squinting through the darkness at his wide-eyed companion.

                “What?” Goku whispered, crawling quietly through the dirt to grasp at the bars that separated their cages. “How?”

                “I’m not sure yet.” Piccolo replied, “but I’m strong enough to overtake one of the guards. Maybe when they bring us our food next?” He mused aloud.

                “Where will we go? What will we do?” Goku asked, slumping a little. He was hoping that Piccolo would have had a better plan. They’d tried going up against their guards before, in the early days, and it had ended badly. They’d been hungry and sleep deprived at the time, operating on fumes.

                “We’ll steal a ship and go where fate takes us.” The green man shrugged. “Anywhere’s better than here. And once we get some food into you, I’m sure you’ll be able to start rebuilding your strength.”

                “Food?” Goku asked, wistfully.

                “Yeah, you know that thing that’s been missing from your diet for three years?” Piccolo’s sarcasm was lost on the saiyan, who’d wandered into dreams of ice cream and chicken wings. “Anyway, I figure we have to catch one of the guards by surprise when there’s only a few of them around. Maybe we pick a time when they’ve been giving us water on a regular basis so I’m at my strongest.”

                “I want to go now.” Goku whined, still thinking about the day when he’d finally be able to stuff his aching stomach to full capacity. “I’ll give you my water rations. All of it!”

                “You’ll die, idiot.” Piccolo rolled his eyes, “though if you share some of it...” he trailed off, claws tapping the ground as he thought. “If you gave me just a little bit every time, it would make a huge difference to me.”

                “Done.” Goku stuck his hand through the bars and gave Piccolo’s a quick shake. “If I can get out of here, I don’t care what I have to do.” He said, firmly, and the Namek believed it. It was one of the reasons he was so desperate to escape, actually. He feared not only for the other man’s life, but for his sanity as well. Goku was slowly becoming something other than what he’d been during their time as rivals on Earth. He was sharper and meaner, though Goku’s ‘mean’ was still pretty damn nice in relation to most. But the trademark patience and persistent belief in the good of others was quickly dissolving and Piccolo feared that his friend was turning feral, like a dog abandoned in the wild. They had to get away, had to escape, and fast. There was really no other choice if Piccolo ever expected to see his friend regain his old personality. Hell, the old personality could be damned, as long as he stopped the spiralling descent into absolute and utter animal madness.

                Three days later, they had their chance. It was much sooner than they’d been expecting and their plan was still painfully full of holes, but Piccolo felt strong and Goku felt driven, and the lone man that had been assigned to guard their small work crew was astoundingly hungover. There were other crews nearby with other, more capable, guards, but Piccolo figured that if they could at least get a head start, they’d have as good a chance as any of making it before too many people realized what was going on. He had to time it right though; go too early and the other guards would still be fresh-faced and full of energy. Wait too long and he and Goku would be so drained from the day’s work that they’d never make it.

                Piccolo made his move shortly after lunch, when a combination of drink, hot sun, and slightly spoiled meat had their guard retching in a corner of their small dugout. Piccolo took notice and elbowed Goku, who was busy hefting rocks into a cart. Not for the first time, Piccolo wondered what the hell they were doing here, exactly, but quickly dismissed the thought. Perhaps after they’d escaped he’d look it up, but at that moment he didn’t care whether they were mining for gold or just doing some landscaping – the guard was crouching on the ground with his back to them, attention only for his roiling guts, and it was the perfect opportunity! Goku nodded and caught the attention of the other prisoners in their group while Piccolo grabbed a good, hard rock, testing its weight in his hand. He shuffled slowly toward the guard, trying to minimize the clanking of the chain connecting his ankles.

                “Don’t make a sound, and we’ll give you the keys when we’re done.” Goku pointed at his own shackles.

                “You’re crazy, they’ll kill you!” Another prisoner hissed. “They’ll kill us all!”

                “We’re doing it.” Goku shrugged. “You can stay and insist you had no part in it, or you can run, I don’t care. Just be quiet!” He turned and shuffled toward Piccolo and the unsuspecting guard, just in time to see the green man raise his fist and bring the rock down hard on the back of the vomiting man’s skull. Goku blanched and felt as though he might lose his own lunch, but he picked up speed and was at Piccolo’s side by the time his friend had pulled the master key from the guard’s belt. He bent and shoved it into the lock on Goku’s right ankle, grunting in frustration as the lock, stiff with sand and dirt, played hard to get.

                “Quickly, quickly.” Goku chanted as Piccolo pried the anklet off and moved to the left. “Damn their scouters, I wish we could use ki!” He danced from foot to foot as Piccolo jammed the key into his own anklet and twisted, this shackle coming off more easily. He did the same for his other leg and then tossed the key to the wide eyed workers huddled across the small quarry.

                “Come on!” He surged to his feet and grabbed Goku’s wrist, forcing the other man to run with him. Flying would have been much faster but they worried about setting off the scouters of the other guards and had decided the night before only to raise their power levels when it was absolutely necessary.

                “H-Hey! Hey, over here!” Someone shouted from behind him, and Goku turned to see the workmate who’d spoken out, hollering and waving at one of the neighbouring work crew’s guard. “Those guys are escaping!”

                “Fucking rat!” Piccolo snarled furiously. “Probably thinks he’ll get rewarded! C’mon Goku!” He leapt into the air, followed by his friend, and they sped along desperately, not really sure which direction to go. A few guards sprang upward as well, but by some lucky twist of fate, most of the men below did not know how to fly, nor did they have much ki to speak of, and instead relied on high-powered weapons to do their jobs.             

                “Scatter shot!” Piccolo screamed, pushing his hand forward to force five balls of ki outward toward the floating guards ahead. He wished that he had the time and the strength to charge something stronger, like his Masenko attack, or even the Special Beam Cannon, but to do so would put him at a serious disadvantage. Even this simple attack drained him more than he’d thought it would. He grimaced; if he was so much weaker than he’d believed, what state was Goku in?

Three of the five connected with their stunned targets, knocking two of them down to the ground, while the third managed to recover and continue his charge, only to be incapacitated by a fist as Goku ploughed right into him. “Remember, don’t stop to fight!” Piccolo shouted as he released another scatter shot, this time managing to take down the remaining two guards. They were in view of the docks now, and in luck; there were four small personal transports and two large slaver ships waiting in port. They’d be crazy to try and take a slaver ship, but the smaller ones could be manned by as little as one person, with maybe a few servants along to help keep the newly purchased slaves under control.

                “The green one!” Goku shouted, pointing his finger at the smallest of the four. “I don’t sense anyone inside it!” Piccolo nodded and together they dove down toward the near-empty yard. “We’re gonna make it!” he crowed, pumping his fist and adding an extra little burst to his already phenomenal speed.

                “Goku, watch out!” Piccolo yelled from behind him, just as the blast caught the Earthling from the side. “GOKU!” he screamed, as his friend was knocked sideways in the air, half the rags that made up his clothing burnt away.

                “Where do you think you’re going, dogs?” A slick, slimy voice demanded, and both escapees looked to their new assailant. The fat, pink alien hardly fit in his uniform, and he held a sandwich awkwardly in his right hand, its contents slowly slipping out and falling down, down, down through the air and into the dirt. Goku whimpered as a slice of meat slapped the ground.

                “Aww, did we interrupt your lunch?” Piccolo taunted as he lowered himself into an attack position. Goku shook his head to remove his focus from the spoiled food and did the same. Soon, he reminded himself, he would be able to eat to his stomach’s content! He’d be free and away from this awful place, and he’d find Chichi and she’d cook the most delicious meals for him, just like she had on Earth.

                “Dodoria, what do you think you’re doing?” Someone shouted from the ground, and before they knew it a bluish alien had floated up from the ground. “We do not have time for this! Let the staff here deal with their own issues!”

                “Aww, but this looks like it could be fun, Cui.” Dodoria chuckled and stuffed the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth, fat black lips slapping as he chewed. “I won’t be long.” He said around his mouthful, and Cui cast him a look of disgust.

                “I’m serious! If Frieza chews us out for being late, it’s on your head!” Cui threatened. “Drop off the load of slaves and GO! Those are our orders!”

                “Oh, shut your trap, fish face!” Dodoria heaved a sigh. “I’m so sick of you!” He raised a hand and fired, knocking his comrade back several feet in the air. “If you don’t quit telling me what to do, I’ll fry your ass and have you for dinner!” Cui shook his head but retreated, grumbling all the way.

                “Slave master says they’re valuable workers and not to kill them!” Cui shouted from the ground, and Goku and Piccolo saw Dodoria roll his eyes.

                “Fuckin’ fun-busters.” He said to them, as though they were in on the game. “Ah well, I’ll just have to rough you up a bit, teach you a lesson, you know.” He advanced on them and they retreated slowly, reluctant to give up ground when they were so close to escape.

                “ _Goku_ ”, Piccolo projected to his friend’s mind, and could tell that he had received the telepathic message by the way his spine stiffened. “ _Can you keep him occupied for just a few minutes? If you can do that, I can charge my beam attack!_ ” Goku turned and nodded. He flexed his arms, feeling long dormant power running through his veins. Just a few minutes, that was all Piccolo would need to release the most deadly attack in his arsenal, the spiral of ki that was sometimes referred to as his _special beam cannon_.

                “Bring it on!” Goku yelled, flying forward on a direct collision course with the fat, spiky enemy. Dodoria laughed and met the attack with a two-armed block before kicking out with one short leg to knock Goku back a few feet. For being so fat he was surprisingly nimble, but Goku was neither daunted nor discouraged – he was too full of anger to bother with defeatism. “We’re getting out of here!” He screamed, launching himself forward again, poised as though ready to punch. At the last second, he pulled back and released a stream of blazing hot energy right into Dodoria’s face. _“Tell me when you’re ready, Piccolo!”_ He thought, desperately hoping the message would reach his comrade, who was busy concentrating on gathering his ki.

                Dodoria roared and grasped his face, fury and burns turning his skin from pink to mottled red, singed to a purplish black in a few minor spots. “Come back here, you runt!” He howled as Goku flickered out of range.

                “Kamehama Ha!” Goku screamed, releasing his trademark attack to swat the fat blob off course.

                “ _Goku, I’m ready!_ ” Piccolo shouted into his mind, as loud and clear as though he’d said it aloud. “ _You’ve got to keep him still for a moment! And hurry, I can’t hold this much power for long!_ ”

                “Get behind me, Piccolo!” Goku called, and when the Namek was facing his back, he placed his hands in front of his face, waiting, waiting, Dodoria was almost in range... “SOLAR FLARE!” Goku yelled, blue light bursting forth from him to blind his opponent while sparing Piccolo’s sight. He dropped quickly down and out of his comrade’s way, and Piccolo released his Special Beam Cannon with a fierce scream while Dodoria writhed prone in the air, clutching at his burning eyes.

                “DODORIA!” Cui screamed from the ground, as the blast bore its way through the fat, pink warrior’s chest and out the other side. Dodoria hit the ground with a thump, his last, gurgling breaths halted by the snap of his neck against rock.

                “Piccolo, come on!” Goku shouted, racing toward the ship. He quickly noticed that his friend wasn’t following, however, and turned to see Piccolo’s own slower descent toward the ground. “PICCOLO!” he screamed, racing to help.

                “I’m sorry.” Piccolo coughed as Goku latched on, supporting him in the air. “I put a little too much into that one. Drained myself.” He coughed again and this time a trickle of purplish blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Stupid.”

                “Don’t worry, I’ll get us to the ship.” Goku promised, but was quickly thwarted by Cui’s ascension into the air.

                “Not if I have anything to say about it, you won’t!” He snapped, firing a blast at the unprotected, unprepared pair. They were knocked to the ground where a troupe of soldiers waited, guns at the ready.

                “Don’t kill them, don’t kill them!” Shouted the slave master, waving his arms as he ran toward the circle of armed men. “They are valuable merchandise!”

                “Feh.” Cui snorted as he landed, kicking a cloud of dust right into Piccolo’s face. “Spare their lives and let them rot here. It’s the least I can do to thank them, after they got rid of that obnoxious slob.” He spat in the direction of Dodoria’s broken body, laughing as three soldiers struggled to lift it. “Leave that piece of trash here!” he shouted, and they dropped their burden with relief. “No one will care to bury him properly anyway. Let the carrion-eaters have him!” He cast one more look down at the two men in the dirt, before stalking away, calling his men to their ship.

                The prison guards advanced slowly, the soft whine of their energy guns sharp in Goku’s ears. He snarled and crouched, ready to launch himself at the nearest man, a greasy-looking humanoid whose fear was plain on his sweaty face. He would be easy to take down, Goku thought. Lunge forward, drive his hands through the soft walls of his belly, tear him through. Spin, kick the guy next to him, drive an elbow into the one on the other side. Ki blast the one at twelve o’clock, use the disembowelled guard as a shield against the guns...it would be messy. Did he care?

                “We’re surrounded, Goku.” Piccolo said, laying a hand on his friend’s trembling shoulder. “You might take down one or two, but the others won’t hesitate to fire their guns, and being dead will do us no good.”

                “So what, we just give up?” Goku hissed, and Piccolo bared his teeth back.

                “We are in no condition to fight, and I am in no mood to die today.”

                “Well I’m in no mood to surrender today!” Goku shot back, at the same time throwing an arm out to let loose a blast of ki right into the nervous guard’s chest. The man flew backwards and landed with a dull thump, dead on the ground.

                “Goku, you IDIOT!” Piccolo yelled as his friend continued to release his ki upon the guards, most of whom had recovered from their shock and had begun to fire. Piccolo grunted as a blast hit him right in the back. He whirled and fired back with a scatter shot that took out three guards, but someone had sounded the alarm and more guards were pouring out of the buildings and running in from the fields to the sound of a blaring siren. “If we die,” Piccolo shouted as he deflected a blast from one gun, “I am so ratting out all your shit to the gods!”

                “They won’t kill us!” Goku laughed, drawing back and punching a man in the face. “We’re valuable, remember?” He dodged a kick and crouched low, his own leg swinging out to knock his would-be assailant flat on his back, before stomping hard on the man’s chest. They were being mobbed, surrounded on all sides and crushed like sardines in a can, and Goku didn’t even care. Hot blood was thrumming through his veins, the scents and sounds of death all around him, goading him, driving him, infusing each punch, each kick, each blast with a raw anger that he had never felt before. “I just want to find my family.” He told a man, before knocking him back with a ki blast, “And you bastards,” he punched another away, “aren’t making that very easy for me!” He kicked a man in the back, the snap of spine reverberating all the way up his leg, even as the guard fell and he moved on to the next. How many men had he killed today? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He wasn’t actively trying to slaughter them, but he wasn’t exactly taking precautions to keep them alive either.

                It wasn’t long before they were overpowered by the sheer number of guards, neither warrior having been at full strength in the beginning of the fight anyway. Had they been, they might just have made it to the green ship and away from the cruel punishment of the slave master, but that was not to be. They fell to the swarming mass and were cuffed, hand and foot, before being beaten and ultimately returned to the very same cages they’d been housed in that very morning. Their rations would be cut and they would be put on separate work details, each to be manned by two of the strongest guards, equipped with the newest armour and the best energy guns the camp could afford.  Their chances of mounting another escape attempt together were effectively nil.

                Goku and Piccolo, both chastened and discouraged, and not to mention bruised and sore, did not realize that the day’s debacle was one of the best things that had ever happened to them, however. Of course they did not know that someone very important had been watching the fight, realization and excitement slowly dawning as the black-haired ‘human’ tore through guard after guard. Someone who knew that the Prince of Saiyans would pay handsomely for information about survivors of his kind...

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Thanks for reading. See you next time!

               

 


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Many apologies for the lateness of this chapter. My brain has not been cooperating with me lately, and so writing has been slow going. Many thanks for your patience.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Vegeta stared at the missive, one hand cupping his chin while the other tapped a thoughtful tattoo on the desktop’s metal surface. The letter was so similar to the one he’d received two-odd years ago that he wondered for a moment if someone was fucking with him. Dormant aggression hidden behind a calm demeanour, complete surprise at seeing the subject’s skill and power under duress. “Fuck me,” he mused, reading over the physical description of the slave under discussion. Had someone actually found Kakarott? It was hard to deny, comparing this letter with the one that had announced the discovery of Gohan. No tail was mentioned, but Vegeta already knew that there wouldn’t be. Gohan had already told them that his father was tail-less, though he had indeed been born with one.

                Vegeta scowled at the computer screen. No mention of a tail didn’t mean it was Kakarott; it just meant that it wasn’t some other heretofore unknown Saiyan. “Could be Kakarott,” Vegeta tilted his head to better study the text, “or it could be some shithead from butt-fuck nowhere.”

Or it could really be Kakarott.

                Vegeta had a hard time believing that he could get so lucky twice. What were the odds that two separate observers in two different slaver camps on two different planets would connect the dots? It didn’t sit well with him; the idea that he may very well be walking into some kind of trap was unnerving. Perhaps whoever it was didn’t mean to kill him or anything ridiculous like that, but Vegeta had seen enough political snares to be wary of walking into one. If he went to investigate, would it get back to Frieza? Was this some sort of ploy to set him up as disloyal to the emperor? He was already carrying around so many secrets that slipping up and unravelling his whole web had become a real possibility.

                Or maybe it was just some stupid fuck, looking to extort some money. The practice wasn’t uncommon. Hell, finding long-lost relatives and selling them back to their desperate families for double the cost was big business in some of the lower markets.

                “Fuck,” he muttered, closing the message and tapping a few keys to erase all traces of its existence, “whoever wrote this message, it’s not like he’s gonna live long after we get it settled, Kakarott or not.”

                Decision made. If there was even a chance that this slave might be of saiyan blood, he was honour bound to investigate. If it was just some other spiky-haired biped then there was nothing lost. If it was actually Kakarott, then there was everything to gain.

                Except Gohan.

                Vegeta didn’t like to admit it, but he was worried about what the kid’s reaction to finding his father would be. His loyalty would no longer belong to the saiyan cause if his little family unit was back together, would it? How hard would it be to sway Kakarott? Gohan had gotten his backward way of thinking from somewhere; surely it was much worse in his parents. And yet…the slave had killed, according to the letter – something which Gohan had been loathe to do. Perhaps this “Goku” wasn’t so much a saint as his son believed him to be.

*

*

                “I’m coming,” Gohan said to Vegeta’s back, forcefully swallowing his nerves, “and you can’t stop me.” He balled his fists at his sides and stood as straight and tall as he could. He’d been shocked when, minutes before, Vegeta had appeared in his doorway and told him not to bother packing. Stunned, he’d sat for a moment longer before stuffing one last shirt into his duffel and sprinting off after the prince.

                “Oh?” Vegeta turned his head to the side, eyeing the boy with just the bare edge of his peripheral vision. “You think I can’t stop you?” He turned fully, his back now facing the small ship he’d been inspecting, and glared down his nose.

                “He’s my dad.” Gohan protested.

                “Exactly. And when you see him and you have some kind of stupid little joygasm at the sight, if it is in fact him,” Vegeta tossed his hand flippantly, “then you will fuck up any chance we have of not appearing suspicious.”

                “I won’t, I promise!” Gohan wheedled, clasping his hands in front of him in classic pleading pose. “Do I need to get down on my knees and beg?”

                “Try it and see, kid, you’ll more’n likely get kicked in the face for your troubles.” Nappa grunted as he shoved a crate of canned rations into the ship’s cargo hold. He eyed the stack of food, packed into the hold nearly wall to wall, and decided he’d better shove a few more flats in, just in case. Now, he scratched his bald head, where to squeeze them in?

                “I’ll follow you.” The boy said, stubbornly. Had he been a normal child in a normal family, he might have stamped his foot and screamed and cried, but he was a half-saiyan being raised by three of the most dangerous men in the universe, and he knew that there was no swaying such hearts with simple tears.

                “Not if I beat the hell out of you and leave you half-dead on the landing strip.” Vegeta snorted, before turning back to his inspection of the water tank. The maintenance crew had most certainly done a thorough check already, but too many years of looking after his own pod had ingrained some hard-to-break habits in the saiyan prince. Plus, there was no telling who was on whose payroll in this army. Few might have been brave enough to face him on the battlefield, but that didn’t mean there weren’t many who’d sink to killing him in far sneakier ways.  

                Gohan just glared, unable to think of a good rejoinder; he didn’t doubt that Vegeta really would beat him and leave him half dead without even batting an eye. “I’ll stay on the ship.” He promised. “Or we can get them to bring my dad to us privately. You’re probably gonna kill the guy who brings us in anyway, aren’t you? If so, my reaction won’t even matter. The less people who see us and who we’re there for, the less chance there is of this leaking out anyway.”

                “Kid’s right.” Radditz pointed out. He hadn’t said much all day, the prospect of finally meeting his long-lost brother having tied his tongue to his unsettled stomach.

                “Ugh, fine. Whatever.” Vegeta grunted, ticking something off on his mental checklist of the ship and stepping round to have a look at a recently welded seam between two panels. He rapped on both sides of the repair with his knuckles and pressed with his fingers, certainly using much more force than it might appear, to test its hold. “Have your teary little reunion with daddy, but don’t expect any of us to be passing tissues around. Get your shit together and be back in five minutes.”

                “Radditz already packed my stuff.” Gohan hitched his thumb to a carefully concealed fourth duffel bag among the three that had been loaded earlier. Vegeta shot Gohan’s uncle a glare but went quickly back to his task rather than bothering to start something. Though he strove not to show it, he was just as anxious as Radditz and Gohan to be going. The prospect of adding another fully grown saiyan to his little clan had his mind racing with possibility.

                “Fucking mutineers.” Vegeta muttered.

*

*

                Goku growled as three guards inched carefully toward him, cautious even though their prisoner wore heavy shackles on both his wrists and arms. He’d become violent since his escape attempt and subsequent beating, the effects of which had not yet healed completely. “He favours his right leg,” said the guard on the left and the other two nodded, fully prepared to use the knowledge to their advantage if necessary. They could see that he was tired, left weak from the restrictions they’d set on his rations, but also that he’d been beaten recently. It looked like someone, his work crew leader perhaps, had taken it upon themselves to dole out some extra punishment for the escape attempt.

                “What do you want?” Goku asked as he backed into the corner of his cage, crouching into a battle-ready stance. He was kind of woozy and the movement made his bruised muscles cry out with pain that he strove not to show. All three guards had guns but only one had his out and ready for use. The other two came in with empty hands.

                “Just stay calm, will ya?” The guard with the gun pleaded. “Boss’ got a potential buyer for your crazy ass, and we’re supposed to deliver you as undamaged as possible.” He levelled the gun at Goku as the other two sprang the final step between them and locked their free arms around his biceps. Even in shackles, they knew this man was dangerous. Just three days ago he’d head-butted the guard on his work crew, knocking the man backwards so hard that he’d cracked his head on a boulder and had to be sent for medical attention. No one knew quite why Goku had done it; perhaps he’d meant to mount another ill-conceived escape plan, or maybe he merely wanted to piss off his captors. He wouldn’t talk, even when pressed. 

                “Buyer?” Goku shot a panicked look at Piccolo, who just shrugged from within his cage, trying not to appear concerned lest he give anything away. “No, no way. Nobody’s buying me!”

                “ _Perhaps you should go with them._ ” Piccolo speculated telepathically. “ _Perhaps this is a good thing._ ”

                “ _I won’t leave you here!_ ” Goku’s mind shouted, even as the men tugging on his arms forced his body to lurch forward, made his feet come into a shambling pattern of steps to avoid falling flat on his face. The man with the gun prodded his back and he yelped when the hard muzzle connected with bruised flesh.

                “Hey, Manks you idiot!” The guard who’d clamped himself onto Goku’s left arm hissed, “What about _undamaged_ didn’t you understand?”

                “Yeesh, sorry.” The man now known as Manks drew his rifle back into the crook of his elbow. “How was I supposed to know?

                “Whatever, just stop it. I don’t wanna get in shit from the boss just ‘cause you wanna feel important back there.”

                “You won’t say nothing, right?” The guard on Goku’s right arm, the one who’d yet to speak, asked jocularly. “No problems between us four, yeah?” Hopeful blue eyes met with Goku’s dark ones, and the earthling couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for the three who were currently manhandling him along.

                “No, I won’t say anything.” Goku sighed after a moment, knowing that it would weigh on his conscience if he got them into trouble. Really, Manks couldn’t know that his back was still a mottled mass of tender cuts and bruises beneath his tattered shirt, and the other two had been outright gentlemen so far, compared to what he was used to from the slave-camp guards. Nah, these guys really weren’t so bad at all, he thought. In other circumstances, he was suddenly certain that they’d have been friends.

                “Hey, chin up man. We’re almost there.” Leftie loosened his grip for a moment to point at a small outbuilding off to the side of the main office. Goku stiffened and forced his eyes to focus on the dumpy little shack. His last experience in such a shed had led to the bruising on his back, and much worse, directly after his escape attempt. A tall, skinny humanoid with skin the colour of rust was pacing back and forth in front of the door and it was making Goku dizzy to try and follow the man with his eyes.

                “What took you so long?” The rust-skinned man strode quickly toward them, irritation and apprehension strong on his features. The saiyans in the shack had made him very nervous and he had a feeling that things might go badly for him if he’d made a mistake. What if that slave wasn’t a saiyan, after all? What would they do?

                “Hey Arxin, where’s Boss?” Manks asked, and Arxin turned a sour face toward the guard.

                “Boss doesn’t oversee every sale.” Arxin lifted his chin haughtily and sneered at the trio of dusty guards as though their presence soiled his very being. “Now hurry and hand him over to me. The buyer is not a patient sort of man.” He reached out and grabbed hold of the chain connecting Goku’s wrists, tugging the bound man forward with surprising strength for such a skinny frame. Leftie and Rightie, as Goku had come to think of them in their short time together, quickly let go and he stumbled forward, nearly falling before he regained his balance. “What did you do to him?” Arxin yelped, appalled at Goku’s state. He was swaying where he stood, obviously unbalanced as he tried to keep as much weight as possible on his good leg.

                “He was a mess when we found him, I swear!” Rightie insisted. “Right?” He turned to his companions who nodded vigorously, but Arxin merely narrowed his eyes.

                “S’true.” Goku piped up wearily. “Guard’s been laying into me daily. S’why I headbutted him.” He slurred the last sentence a little, honestly surprised at how lightheaded he was after the long walk. Perhaps he was more injured than he realized.

                “Shit.” Arxin hissed. “Shit, shit, SHIT!” He glared at Goku, plainly taxed by the mere effort of standing on two feet, and swiped a hand across his forehead as beads of nervous sweat began to pop up. “You get your brains together, you hear me?” He grabbed Goku’s shirt in his fist and pulled him forward. “Don’t you dare go fainting on me in there or anything.” He released the material and was pleased when the man did not sway. “And you three,” Arxin turned toward the guards, “make yourselves scarce.”

                Goku was led into the shack by a surprisingly gentle hand on his back. Arxin was obviously eager to minimize the appearance of damage and certainly did not want to cause even more by treating his merchandise roughly. Goku squinted in the dim light inside the shack, surprised to see four figures crammed into the murky interior, rather than the one he’d been expecting from Arxin’s words outside the shack.

                “G...Gohan?” His weary eyes focused on the smallest figure and he fell to his knees, staring at the trembling figure of the child. Was he imagining it? Was it some sort of cruel cosmic joke, or was that little deer in the headlights his son?

                “Is that him?” The second shortest figure asked, and Gohan nodded, still staring at his father. He could feel his muscles trembling with the effort it took not to throw himself upon the chained man. He felt sick, to see his father that way, but he swallowed it all back and forced himself to stand still and stoic, just as he had promised Vegeta he would. “Alright, Nappa, Radditz, you two get him into the ship.”

                Goku panicked as two looming shadows came toward him. What was going on? Who were these people and why did they have his son? That _was_ Gohan, wasn’t it? It sure as hell looked like him, but if so, why had he not said anything? “P...Piccolo!” He gasped out as the two big guys grabbed hold of his arms and hefted him to his feet. “Piccolo, I can’t leave him behind!” He began to struggle in their grasp. “Let me go get him, I won’t be long! Please!”

                “Quit wiggling, Kakarott.” The longhaired saiyan on his arm snarled. Who was Kakarott? “I just found you, I don’t want the first thing I do to be knocking you out.”

                “Mr. Piccolo is still alive?” Gohan asked, and Goku nodded.

                “Gohan, please, I can’t leave him here.” Goku begged, watching as his son turned toward the short adult with the wild flame of hair.

                “He’ll be a huge help.” Gohan said. “He’s very strong!”

                “Arxin!” Vegeta barked, drawing his face into a scowl. “Since our preferred cargo is so damaged, we will take this Piccolo for free, as compensation.”

                “Oh, no, no, that wasn’t the deal!” Arxin protested, but his courage quickly died under the force of Vegeta’s glare. “I...um...I’ll get him and then we’ll...ahh...negotiate.” he muttered, darting out the door. “Stay here!”

                “Gohan, what is going on?” Goku moaned as soon as Arxin’s footsteps were no longer audible. “Who are these people?”

                “Um...” Gohan stalled, looking at his father’s beaten body, hearing the tiredness in his words. “Perhaps it would be best to tell you everything after you’ve rested and eaten.” Gohan put a hand on his father’s slumping shoulder, which perked suddenly at the mention of food. “All you need to know is that you’re safe now.”

                Piccolo was brought quickly and Gohan was relieved to see that the former god was in much better shape than his father. “A namek?” Vegeta spat, surprised. “How the hell did you end up on Earth?”

                “It’s a long story.” Piccolo shrugged, his attention focused moreso  on the resemblance between Goku and the three adults that had come to buy him. “Hello Gohan,” he said, belatedly realizing that the fourth saiyan was in fact the snivelling kid he’d met on the eve of Earth’s destruction. “Surprised to see that you’re alive.”

                “Same to you.” Gohan said, executing a quick bow of respect. “But pleased all the same,” he added, and Piccolo couldn’t help but smirk at that.

                “Yeah, I guess me too.”

                “Ahem,” Arxin coughed into his hand, interrupting the odd reunion. “Now about my payment. Seeing as this is the person you were searching for and I have done everything to ensure that this transaction stays between us...” he trailed off, one eyebrow raised and Vegeta fought the urge to sneer.

                “Of course.” The prince said docilely as he stepped toward Arxin. “We are in a hurry, so I suppose it’s best to make this quick.”

                “Good to see we’re on the same level. I take it you’ve brought the –hurk-“ He coughed as Vegeta reached out and grabbed his head, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Arxin’s jaw.

                “Tsk tsk, little fool.” Vegeta laughed, his voice low. “You didn’t expect to live, now that you know we’ve got another saiyan in our midst, did you? After all the trouble I went to, to keep this secret, you didn’t think I’d let you prance off with the knowledge in your little brain, did you?” He spun his wrist quickly, forcing Arxin’s head to the side and jerked, snapping his neck with so little effort. “Come on,” he ordered, turning away from the body and back toward his men. “We have places to be.”

                “Come on, Kakarott.” Radditz tugged on his brother’s arm, forcing the bewildered man to stop staring at the body and follow along. He felt sick at the thought that his son had just seen a man be murdered, but Gohan seemed to have no qualms as he stepped neatly over the corpse on his way out the door.

                “Careful of the pee, dad.” Gohan said, pointing to the puddle on the floor that his father was about to step in. Goku wrinkled his nose and took an awkwardly long step that would have unbalanced him had Radditz not been clamped to his arm. Nappa had long since let go and moved up in their little procession to be near Vegeta, while Piccolo followed warily at the rear. He really didn’t trust the tailed men, but anywhere was better than the cage he’d been living in, and he especially didn’t want to be anywhere near the shack when someone came along and found Arxin’s body.

*

*

                “Ugh, where’s Sixteen?” Bulma complained as Krillin knocked into yet another wall. He was carrying the awkward bulk of the regeneration tank all by himself and he couldn’t see where he was going for shit.

                “He’s been locked up in the lab with Dr. Gero for a while now...Watch out!” Chichi yelped and dove in to save the crate from bumping the door frame as Krillin negotiated the big object through the small space. “Last time I saw either of them was maybe two or three days after you and Puar left.”

                “Well maybe he’ll come out now that we’re back with Gero’s mystery package.” Bulma shrugged and pointed to the plain brown box under her arm. “No clue what it is,” she said, “but it’s too light to be Sixteen’s new dong.” She winked and Chichi flushed to the roots of her hair. “But I guess if he’s been locked away with the old coot all this time, then there must not be any new developments on that front, eh?”

                “Shht!” Chichi hissed, waving an arm in Krillin’s direction, but the diminutive monk was too occupied with his task to pay attention to their conversation. “If you told anyone...” Chichi trailed off in warning, and Bulma laughed.

                “Oh relax, everybody sees you two cuddling on the couch all the time. It’s no secret.”

                “It’s not like that and you know it.” Chichi crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared at her friend, wondering why she’d even bothered to miss the blue haired woman’s company while she’d been away. “We’re just friends, and I’ll thank you not to spread rumours otherwise!”

                “Okay, okay, scout’s honour.” Bulma laughed. “I’m going to go see if someone will  answer my knocks,” she rapped the mystery package with her knuckles, “wanna come?”

                “Nah,” Chichi shrugged. “I’ve got to start prepping dinner. It’s my turn to cook tonight.”

                “Oooh, what are we having?” Bulma asked, already drooling. “I’ve been eating canned rations for the whole trip and one of your meals will me more than welcome.”

                “Nothing special, just roast _tur_ with maybe some steamed _baida_ on the side. I thought I might whip up a pie for dessert from some of that fruit you brought from Guru’s...or maybe fruit tarts...I’m not sure. I’ll have to see what exactly is in there.”

                “Whatever it is, my stomach is growling already.” Bulma smiled and tapped the package again. “But I’d better get a move on. I also want to unpack the tank and get it set up this afternoon. I’ve also been slacking a bit on the gravity room plans. Dad and I are just about ready to begin construction but there’s a few bugs to be worked out and measurements to be finalized before we go scrounging for materials.”

                “How much is it going to cost us?” Chichi asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. When the gravity room was finished, she reminded herself, Vegeta would come to the station with Gohan. All she cared about was seeing more of Gohan.

                “Um...a lot.” Bulma grimaced and Chichi rolled her eyes. The heiress had never really come to terms with her reduced budget.

                “Make Vegeta pay for it. He’s the one who wants the stupid thing.” She sighed, thinking about how she and Mrs. Briefs would continue to feed the station when all of their meagre funds were being used to buy concrete and reinforced steel panels.

                “Well, I could try. I don’t want to even think about how much he shelled out for the new tank. It’s really top of the line. I guess he must figure he’ll be using it a lot once the GR is built.”

                “Leaving the rest of us to wallow in bandages, no doubt.” Chichi snorted.

                “He’s not so bad, you know.” Bulma snapped. “I wish you’d at least _try_ to be a little less negative about Vegeta.”

                “Why, so when he comes back here you can hop into bed with him again? Be a nice, cozy little couple and integrate him into our happy little family?” Chichi asked, sarcastically. “Get real, Bulma. I don’t get what you see in that guy. He’s rude, he’s short, and he’s a homicidal maniac. We’ve all heard the stories, Bulma. He’s killed _billions_ of people. Laid entire planets to waste. Don’t you get it? If it weren’t for Goku’s presence on Earth, he and those other two killer pets of his probably would have been in on the action.”

                “Shut up, Chichi.” Bulma hissed. “Just shut up! Don’t you think I know how stupid I’m being? Don’t you think I know how dangerous he is, how he could snap my neck in a second? But he hasn’t, and he won’t. You don’t...” her voice caught, “You weren’t there with us. When he touched me...he was so careful.” She whispered. “And he didn’t have to be, but he was. Chichi, I don’t know what to do. I feel like...I don’t even know. I never, _never_ felt this strongly for Yamcha. And I don’t know if it’s real or if it’s just infatuation, but I keep thinking that hey, infatuation is real, too.”

                “Bulma...”

                “Don’t. Don’t tell me I’m being stupid or foolish, because I already know it. And don’t you dare throw it in my face what he’s done, because no matter what I tell myself, no matter how many times I imagine him ripping someone’s guts out with his bare hands, it doesn’t do a damn thing. It doesn’t make a bit of difference. I just...” Bulma heaved a sighed and looked down at the package in her arms.

                “Do you love him?”

                “No.” Bulma shook her head and looked at her friend. “No, I hardly know him.”

                “You’ve been talking to him for a long time now.” Chichi pointed out, as she took the box from Bulma and set it on the table. She crossed the room to sit on the couch and patted the seat next to her.

                “It’s not love, nothing like that. It’s just...when he touches me, when he speaks to me, he’s all I can think about. It’s like my brain shuts down and this animal part of me just takes over, and all it has eyes for is him.” She sighed and plopped down on the couch. “That’s fucked up. That’s like, obsession and mental health problems type of messed up.”

                “Well, you have been under a lot of stress lately.” Chichi snickered, and Bulma snorted and punched the black-haired woman in the arm. “Ouch!”

                “Oh yeah right, like I could ever hurt you with my fists, Chi.” Bulma rolled her eyes and flopped back into the cushions.

                “Okay, here’s the deal,” Chichi flopped back too and grabbed Bulma’s hand, squeezing it within her own. “I’ll try to be less negative about Vegeta if you try and take off your rose-coloured glasses and maybe think about my point of view.”

                “Pfft, if I was only wearing tinted specs, Chi. I _know_ how much of a jerk he is. The problem is that it doesn’t even matter. I feel like I’m one of those battered women who keeps saying how much she loves her husband, even while she’s in the emergency room, black and blue with a broken nose.”

                “Even I’ll admit he’s not that bad.” Chichi sighed. “You’re more like some mobster’s wife who lives in her pretty house with all her money, and conveniently ignores where it comes from.”

                “Oh, thanks.” Bulma couldn’t help but to laugh and Chichi began to giggle too. “At least I’m not hot for a sexless robot.”

                “Oh, hush.” Chichi turned her head and grinned at Bulma across the couch cushion, their hands still linked between them.

                “Ooh, sexy lesbo action!” Came a grating voice from the doorway before a flash of light sent blobs of colour dancing through their vision. Both women turned to see Oolong standing there with a camera, ready to snap another photo. “Why don’t you two get a little closer?” he grunted, “Maybe make out a little?”

                “Augh, you little pervert!” Chichi shrieked, letting go of Bulma’s hand and launching herself to her feet. She grabbed a cushion and hurled it at the pig. “Get out of here!” She yelled, stomping toward him. Oolong squealed and bolted but Chichi was not to be dissuaded. She chased him out of the room and down the hallway before Bulma heard the muffled thump of Chichi’s booted foot hitting the pig in his well padded bottom.

                “Ah, geez Chi!” Bulma heard him squawk. “I was just joking around! Ouch! Ngg! Can’t a guy have a little fun? Ack! No, not the face! Ow!”

                “Just another day.” Bulma shook her head and got slowly to her feet. She grabbed the package and shuffled over to the door of Gero’s lab. She tried the intercom but there was no response and pounding on the door elicited no action whatsoever, so she shrugged and dumped the box in front of the door before heading off to the medical bay to see how Krillin was faring with the regeneration tank. He’d already stripped the crate away by the time she arrived and he’d begun to pull the various parts out of their packing. “What a beautiful mess!” She beamed, her eyes taking in the array of metal and plastic spread out across the floor.

                “It’s mostly pre-constructed,” Krillin said, pulling away some more packing to reveal the pod-shaped device that took up most of the space in the box, “but as you can see there is some assembly required.” He smiled back as he tossed her the instruction manual. “This one even comes with a book. He must not have bought it on the black market...or at least a more upscale market that Gero’s used to.” Krillin shrugged and pulled away the scratch protector that covered the glass front of the tank. “That guy must be loaded.” He whistled, peering inside the prefab portion of the tank. “This thing is way fancier than the last one.”

                “I know,” Bulma squealed, her nose buried in the manual. “It’s one of the best models available right now...maybe _the_ best.”

                Hey, what’s this?” Krillin asked, pulling a folded piece of paper that was wedged into the control console. It obviously wasn’t part of the packing materials.

                “What, what is it?” Bulma snatched it from his hands and unfolded it.

 

                .               _We even?_

.               _-V_

 

                                “What, is it some kind of love note?” Krillin laughed, snagging it back. “Oh ho, how romantic!” He laughed, reading it quickly. “Hey, there’s two sheets here.” He peeled a second piece of paper off the back of Vegeta’s note, to see a child’s rounded letters staring up at him.

                .               _Dear Mom, I miss you and I’m sorry I had to leave so soon. I’ll see you soon. Love, Saiyaman._

                “Aww,” Bulma took the note from Vengeance back, leaving Gohan’s note firmly between Krillin’s fingers. “Why don’t you go give that to Chichi and I’ll finish putting this thing together.” Her smile was a bit watery. “If you see my dad, let him know about this.” She gestured toward the mess around them. “He might be interested in the tank.”

                “Ahh, sure.” Krillin folded the note carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his pants. “I’ll leave you to it.” He grinned as he watched Bulma’s fingers play over the piece of paper she’d taken back from him. She thought she was so smart, so clever and sneaky, but he’d overheard enough of her conversations with Vengeance to know that something was going on between the two of them even before Vegeta showed up in the flesh. He also knew Bulma’s track record – she had a terrible weakness for dangerous guys and had never been able to stop herself from flirting with the enemy, even though she would never really go for a bad guy. Vegeta must have seemed like the perfect man – more than dangerous enough t make her heart pound, but with a secret _save the world_ side to catch her flighty heart.

                Krillin shook his head as he left the room. No, he wasn’t nearly as naive as everyone liked to think.

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Yeah, Krillin knows the score. Thanks for waiting, thanks for reading, and thanks in advance to those of you who leave a review. 


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: For your enjoyment, finally a chapter that contains some B/V interaction. Thanks for reading, folks.

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PRESENT DAY

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                “It’s…ah…good to see you Gohan.” Goku faltered, not really sure what to say. All through the walk to the ship, all through the launch procedures and the blast into space he’d thought of everything he wanted to tell his son, all the thoughts and feelings that were coursing through his brain and his heart that he wanted to share…and then he looked his child in the eye and words failed him completely. He’d never felt so awkward before, so lost and so unsure of himself.

                “It’s good to see you too, Dad.” Gohan grinned and looked furtively around to see that the saiyan men were paying attention to other things. Quickly, he dove in for a split second hug before retreating so that none of his comrades would see him. He scratched the back of his head and laughed self-consciously at his father’s shocked face. “Sorry dad. They aren’t big on hugs.” He shrugged, then looked over at Piccolo, who sat watching the whole exchange. “Good to see you, too, Mr. Piccolo.” Gohan bowed stiffly, as he would have done on Earth, and the green man grunted a greeting and looked away again, effectively dismissing the world around him.

                Gohan turned back toward his father and was surprised at how much easier it was, compared to the reunion with his mother. Was it because Goku had always been the more easygoing parent, while Chichi’s expectations had sometimes been impossibly high? Or was it that he expected his father to understand, as a male, the world of testosterone driven violence that he’d become part of? No, perhaps those things were part of it, but the real reason, he suspected, was because his father had become involved in Frieza’s world, while his mother had been safely cocooned in Red Station all these years. Yeah, she was active in the resistance and went out every once in a while on a mission, but she’d not been subject to the sights of torture and death. She’d not had to kill anyone to ensure she stayed alive, she’d not gone hungry between meals or wondered if she’d taken her last breath.

                Gohan was glad of it, of course; the thought of his mother having had to endure anything that he had, or even worse, that his father had, made his skin itch. Her isolation had kept her safe, and that was the big difference between them all. Goku and Gohan had not had the same luxury, and it had changed them both on some deeper level.

                “So how did you find us?” Goku asked, not so much because he was curious, but because he felt a need to ask something other than _How’s your life been these last three years? Hopefully not as hellish as mine!_

                “Vegeta has contacts.” Gohan shrugged and sat down beside his dad.

                “Vegeta’s the short one, yeah?”

                “Uh huh,” Gohan whispered, “but don’t dare let him hear you say that.”

                “Too late,” Radditz laughed from a few feet away as the prince’s back stiffened. He crossed the room in a few strides and ruffled a big hand through Gohan’s hair. Goku was struck by the resemblance between the two, and also by their easy manner. The other two were much more stiff in their mannerisms and Goku was glad that his son had at least had some form of friendly contact with his three guardians, even while he felt a small twinge of jealousy at the fact that someone else had taken his position as father for the past three years.

                “So you’re my…uh…brother, huh?” Goku looked up at the bigger man’s face, trying to see some resemblance between himself and his supposed relative. Did he look like that? It had been so long since he’d looked in a mirror, he hardly remembered his own face. Radditz looked so much tougher, so much scarier than he could ever remember having appeared himself.

                “Older brother.” Radditz amended sternly, then broke into a grin that showcased his impressive teeth. Goku knew that he at least shared those, though he wondered if his smile had ever looked so unintentionally menacing. Maybe his own canines weren’t quite so pronounced. “It’s good to see you, Kakarott. I remember watching as they stuffed your screaming carcass into a pod; Dad said you’d come back one day, but to be honest, I’d kind of stopped hoping. Man, do you ever look like him.” Radditz shook his head in wonder. “Like his twin.”

                “R…really?” Goku asked, surprised that he found himself a little pleased to hear it. He’d never known his father, never even really known he’d had a father, so the sudden feeling of closeness was incredibly unexpected.

                “His name was Bardock!” Gohan put in, looking up at Radditz for confirmation, even though he had it memorized.

                “Bar-dock.” Goku repeated the name slowly, trying it out on his tongue. “Bardock.” He looked at Radditz. “What was out mother’s name?”

                “I _hate_ to break up the little reunion,” Nappa stepped in just as Radditz opened his mouth to answer, “but Vegeta wants us all in the training rooms right away. That includes Kakarott and the green one.”

                “Uh, right.” Radditz nodded, though his eyebrows drew together worriedly as he met Gohan’s gaze.

                “What’s going on?” Gohan asked, as soon as Nappa had walked out of hearing range. “Why does he want us all in there?”

                “He wants to test their strength, no doubt,” Radditz frowned thoughtfully, “though I really wish he’d waited a few days to let Kakarott rest up and eat something.”

                “Uhh, my name is Goku.” Goku piped up, but Radditz ignored him.

                “Why, by the Gods, does he want to do this now?” The long haired saiyan continued muttering to himself.

                “No doubt he wants to check out the merchandise.” Piccolo’s rough sarcasm surprised them all, as he’d hardly said a word since they’d brought him aboard. Something about the saiyans made him wary. He was trying to give them the benefit of the doubt, seeing as they’d just saved his ass from the closest thing to hell he’d ever seen, but the very smell of them set his nerves firing. Warriors always smelled the same – a tang of blood, sweat followed them everywhere, as though it clung to their very souls. It was the reek of power and ruthlessness, and most honourable warriors were not so ripe with it as the saiyans were.

                Yet still, thought the part of him that was Kami, these three supposedly bloodthirsty killers had taken in a five year old boy and hadn’t done too bad a job with him. He was alive, and yeah, maybe he’d not batted an eye when the man called Arxin had been murdered right in front of him, but he seemed like a decent enough kid, and Kami had been an excellent judge of character.

                “Look,” Radditz said, with a sidelong glance at his brother, “let’s not get all worked up over this. Surely Vegeta won’t base his entire opinion of you guys on just one match when the two of you are both half starved. He knows better than that.”

                “What’s the big deal, anyway?” Goku sighed, feeling more tired and irritable than he could ever remember, now that he had the luxury to do so. Or at least he thought he did. Maybe he’d just left one form of slavery, only to be pulled into another.

                “I said NOW!” Nappa boomed from across the room, and Gohan hopped quickly up from his seat.

                “We’ll talk later, dad.” He said, reaching a hand out to haul his father up by the arm. “C’mon. Vegeta doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Mr. Piccolo…” he looked awkwardly toward the sour faced Namek who, despite his condition, Gohan still found incredibly intimidating. The man had been both God and the Devil, and even though it was only for one measly planet out of billions, Gohan still thought that deserved some respect.

*

*

                The first thing that Bulma noticed when she walked out of her room in the morning was that the package she’d left outside of Gero’s lab was not there anymore. “Well, at least now I know he’s not dead,” she shrugged, “or at least that Sixteen is taking care of things.”

                “Glad to see you have so much concern for my wellbeing.” Came a dry voice from behind her.

                “Gero!” She yelped, whirling around to face the old doctor.

                “I admit, I would have come out much sooner, if someone had been timely in her delivery of my parcel,” he continued sourly as he moved to pass her in the narrow hall.

                “Well if you wanted it done so quickly, maybe you should have done it yourself!” Bulma huffed and stood her ground as he bumped into her with his shoulder. If he wasn’t going to be polite and say “excuse me” then she damn well wasn’t going to move!

                “I wasn’t expecting you to go joyriding around the galaxy, on my time.” Gero said, stopping to turn and glare at her. “I’ll have you know that your dawdling nearly cost me everything! It was all Sixteen could do to keep m-” he faltered, “the experiment stable!” Gero stood perfectly still, his eyes boring into her, yet from something in his voice, Bulma got the feeling that he was quite shaken by whatever had happened in the lab.

                “Look, I didn’t realize it was that big a deal,” Bulma backpedalled a little, feeling guilty as she saw how upset the doctor was getting. He’d never told her to hurry up and she was more than a little irritated to be blamed for almost ruining his experiment when she hadn’t even realized there was a time limit being imposed on her trip. Really, why had he even begun the experiment, whatever it was, until he’d had all the important pieces ready to go? She cut off her train of thought right there. If she continued, she’d end up smack-dab in righteous-ville, and considering that the doctor had an ego at least the size of her own but none of her social graces, she knew they’d be slinging insults at each other soon if she didn’t put a stop to it.

                “ _Everything_ I do is a big deal!” snarled the doctor as wrenched his glare from her face and stalked away, leaving a stunned Bulma standing alone in the hall.

                “Well!” she huffed aloud to herself, resisting the urge to cross her arms and stamp her foot. Not like it would make much of an impact, encased in slipper as it was. The rubber sole might make a little slap of a sound, but it wasn’t like anyone else was even around to hear it. “Old bastard…” she muttered irritably. Had there been someone around she might have gone on a tirade about the doctor’s lack of gratitude and respect, but she’d long ago learned that the walls don’t ever care what you have to say. Bulma had more important things to do than stew over the old man’s rudeness anyway, like getting herself a really big mug of coffee. She’d been up late last night, poring over her plans for the gravity chamber, trying to make a list of which parts she could re-purpose from things she already had lying around, and what she would need to purchase. Vegeta didn’t exactly seem like a tightwad, but she figured he’d be more likely to hand over his money if he knew she was at least _trying_ to save him some cash. Plus, she really hated the idea of begging anyone for money, and figured that if she had a comprehensive list of what she needed, she’d only have to ask once. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have batted an eye at such expense, but living frugal for three years had taught her a few things about wasteful spending that she’d been loathe to learn. Having a great idea for a brand new invention wasn’t much fun if you didn’t have the money to buy the necessary supplies to build it.

                Bulma shuffled into the kitchen and over to the coffeepot, which was blessedly full and piping hot. “Mmm, fresh,” she inhaled as she poured, “and strong.” She blew over the surface of the steaming liquid and took a sip, feeling the warmth trickle its way down into her belly. She closed her eyes and wrapped both hands around her mug, taking a moment to simply enjoy the simple pleasure of hot coffee before she had to get back to work for the day.

                “Mornin’ Bulma” Krillin walked in, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. He yawned. “Hey, is that a new pot?”

                “Yeah. Hope whoever made it didn’t have big plans to save it!” Bulma laughed and pulled a mug down from the counter as Krillin tossed some bread into the toaster. “You take sugar, right?” She asked, and tossed in a spoonful when he nodded.

                “Any plans for the day?” Krillin asked, and Bulma shrugged as she handed him his cup.

                “Gravity room stuff again. Thought I’d go through my blueprints and notes and make a comprehensive list of what I need. Then I’ll be able to figure out what I can recycle from other projects, and what I need to buy.” She sipped her coffee and grinned hopefully. “Then I get to go beg Vegeta for money.”

                “Ooh, sounds fun,” Krillin snorted and took a sip. “Hmm, never tastes quite the same as Earth sugar, does it?” He sighed wistfully. “Oh well, what can you do, eh?”

                Bulma laughed and took another gulp of her coffee before reaching for the pot to top up her half-empty mug. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to work on this list.”

                “Sure, sure,” Krillin waved a hand, “you just don’t want to hear my maudlin sugar musings, that’s all.” He laughed and pulled his toast out of the toaster. “If you need any help, let me know.”

                “Will do.” Bulma saluted with her free hand, which was really the wrong one for saluting, and made her way to the lab. In the end, she put off writing to Vegeta for another three days.

*

*

                Vegeta looked at the polite, professionally worded request for funds and almost grinned. It must have galled her so, to write this plea to him, knowing what he did of her personality. He wanted to laugh aloud, imagining all the writing and re-writing that must have gone on as she struggled both with her pride and of course, her lingering irritation with him. They had spoken a few times since they’d last seen one another, but their conversations were lacking in the personal tone they’d once held and were strictly business. He hated to admit it, but he missed the inanity of her conversation. The thought that she might never again get drunk and ask him ridiculous questions was strangely disheartening.

                “ _Mine, mine mine,_ ” muttered that angry part of his brain, and the rational part of Vegeta’s mind wasn’t so quick to disagree. He still didn’t really like the idea of the ‘bonding’ thing, but that didn’t mean he had to stay away from her. In fact, if he refused to believe in it, refused to let Nappa’s silly ideas influence him, then it would have no bearing on whatever they shared between them. He was attracted to her, no denying it, and he maybe even _liked_ her, but that didn’t have to mean they were stuck together forever, as Nappa liked to think. In fact, the whole bonding thing was probably some load of shit invented by his female ancestors in an attempt to hold on to their males. Just because generation after generation of his people had believed in it didn’t make it real…lots of people believed in lots of dumb things.

                Vegeta tried to put this particular dumb thing out of his mind. Really, he did. He had work to do, people to see, empires to bring down, but the thoughts just kept nagging at him. He enjoyed Bulma on a deeper level than he’d ever enjoyed any woman, so what the hell was his problem? Why was he thinking and thinking and overthinking his relationship with her? He liked to talk to her, and he also liked to fuck her, so why in hell was he resisting it? Damn Nappa and his crazy ideas, that’s why!

                When he thought really hard about it and was truthful with himself, Vegeta knew that he really wasn’t averse to the idea of spending the rest of his life with the woman. That wasn’t to say that he was currently pursuing such a course, but the idea didn’t make his skin crawl. Then came Nappa with his mystical forces and fate, and suddenly Vegeta felt as though his affection for her was forced upon him. He liked her, but he didn’t _want_ to like her if that feeling wasn’t really his own.

                Ugh, did that even make sense? Vegeta wondered if he was finally losing it after so many years under Frieza’s rule.

                “You’ve been frowning at that email for ten minutes.” Gohan said, startling Vegeta from his thoughts and really embarrassing him. “Forget what Nappa said. If you like her, then you like her, right?”

                “Fuck off, kid. You’re eight, what do you know?” Vegeta snarled and clicked the message shut. Gohan shrugged and said nothing. He wanted to say something cliché like _“I’ve never seen you so happy,”_ or _“I’d never seen you smile so easily before,”_ which were both completely true statements, but he figured if he said something so sappy, Vegeta would be more likely to punch him in the head than take his advice. “I’m surprised you managed to pull yourself away from _daddy_ long enough to come spy on me.”

                “Actually I, uh,” Gohan faltered, looking at his feet ashamedly. “I wanted to talk to you about my dad. I think there’s something wrong.”

                “So you’ve finally noticed, have you?” Vegeta sneered and leaned back in his chair. Gohan ignored his tone and sat down in the other chair.

                “What do you mean?”

                “Ugh, Nappa and I have been watching him for a week now, while you and Radditz are so blinded by warm family feelings that you’d hardly notice if he were headless.” Vegeta rolled his eyes and picked a piece of lint from his knee. “Gods, at least if he were, I wouldn’t have to look at that inane grin.”

                “You have hardly looked at him.” Gohan pointed out, and then, “And I do know what you’re talking about…I thought it would get better…that once he had food, a chance to train…” The boy faltered. “He’s not getting any stronger.” He blinked back tears. “It seems like he’s even weaker than when we were on Earth.”

                “Oh, quit your blubbering.” Vegeta snapped. “He only seems weaker because you’ve gotten so much stronger. The wasting can’t possibly have progressed far enough that he’d _lose_ strength. It’s only been a few years. But you are right; he’s not getting stronger.” Vegeta didn’t want to admit it, but he was just as disappointed as the kid was. They’d hoped that Kakarott would be at least as strong as his brother but he was useless to them as he was.

                “Wasting? What is that?” Gohan asked, his voice trembling as though he was afraid to hear the answer.

                “When a saiyan is subject to prolonged periods of malnutrition, his body will turn on itself. Right now, Kakarott’s body is surviving by consuming his energy. Any progression he makes in power level is instantly used up, just to keep him functioning. This is why he is not growing stronger. Had his imposed starvation continued, eventually his power gains would be less than what his body needs for survival, which would have resulted in a reduction of his baseline power level, accompanied by physical wasting.” Vegeta sighed as he watched the first fat tears roll down Gohan’s cheeks. “It is reversible,” he pointed out, almost feeling guilty at having upset his young subject, “with time and a proper regimen of eating, resting, and training.” Then, because he was feeling as though he’d been too nice, Vegeta dropped his next bombshell. “He will not be able to recover with us.”

                “I didn’t think so.” Gohan nodded sadly. “Tarble?” He asked, because he remembered hearing the name of Vegeta’s brother being tossed around when they thought they would not keep him.

                “No. Red Station.” The prince responded, “But don’t think, for even a second, that we’re leaving you there to play ‘happy family’ too. You have work to do.” He warned, seeing the light in Gohan’s eyes. “And don’t forget where your loyalties lie. Now get out. I’m busy.” Vegeta dismissed the boy as he spun his chair around to face the computer screen once more. “And shut the door behind you!” He demanded, just before it clicked shut anyway. Fucking kid.

                Shaking his head, Vegeta called up his comm-link and bade it to connect with Bulma’s.

                “Didn’t anyone ever tell you,” he spoke the second she answered, “that when you ask somebody for a favour, you should really do it in person?”

                “Hello to you too, Vegeta.” He heard her breathy sigh over the link and felt a tingle race through him. “And I don’t know if I would really say I’m asking you a favour, since I’m building the gravity simulator at your request. And,” she added, “how do you expect me to ask you in person, when I usually have no idea where you’re going to be? You’ve been off our radar for weeks now.” Vegeta could hear the complaint in her voice, imagined her standing with her hands on her hips, weight all resting on one leg with the other extended out to the side, foot tapping. He would have been disappointed to see that she was actually sitting in her chair, tinkering with some small project while she nagged him.

                “Aww, did you miss me?” He purred, practically searing all her nerve endings through the speaker. Her grip on the soldering iron slipped as a sudden vision raced through her mind, of water sliding over skin, the feel of a slick brown tail sliding through her fingers.

                “Shit!” Bulma cursed as the hot tool scraped over her circuit, leaving a streak of solder and ruining it in the process.

                “I love it when you talk dirty,” Vegeta said dryly, over the clang of Bulma throwing the now useless contraption aside. Hours of work, down the drain.

                “What do you want?” She demanded as she ripped the iron’s cord from the outlet. “You hardly talk to me for months, and now you come online with your sex-voice, and-“

                “Sex voice?” Vegeta cut her off with a laugh.

                “Yes, you pig, your sex voice! All low and rumbly, and whenever you talk like that, all I can think of is you telling me to let my towel drop, and I think you know it, you bastard! You just made me trash so much work!” She shrieked, too irritated at her mistake to be embarrassed by what she was admitting.

                There was a moment of silence on the other end before Vegeta spoke again. “Does thinking about that night make you hot?” He asked, “Does it make you wet?” Those words stopped her tirade and Bulma strained to hear a note of mockery in his voice but there was nothing she could detect. Was he serious? Who did he think he was, to run out on her and then suddenly start treating her like a chat-line operator?

                “Wh…what are you doing?” She stuttered, confused. “Don’t think you can treat me like garbage, then turn around and call me up for some…some phone sex!” She blurted, even as she considered locking the door to her lab. She was mad, completely indignant, and yet she couldn’t help the memories coming to the fore.

                “It makes me hard.” Vegeta continued as though she hadn’t said anything, and Bulma nearly moaned aloud to hear him say it. “And when we get to Red, the first thing I’m going to do is take you to bed again.”

                “Vegeta…I don’t,” Bulma bit her lip and clamped her legs together. “Wait, what?” Her eyes popped open with realization. “When you get to Red? You’re coming here?”

                “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” The prince sounded amused and Bulma couldn’t tell whether or not she was being played with, “We’re already on our way. ETA is about a week.”

                “If you think you’re getting back between my legs, Vegeta, you’d better think again!” She insisted, caught between desire and pride. She wanted him again, but she didn’t want him to think he could just treat her like crap, have his way with her and toss her aside like so much garbage.

                “Actually, I was thinking maybe you’d get between mine this time. I’ve imagined your lips around my cock since I first saw you.” Vegeta’s rough, rumbling voice made her light headed and she actually blushed to hear his words. Had he just said what she thought he’d said? Was he messing with her? She hadn’t thought of him as so forward, but then again, he _had_ cornered her in the showers without warning.  

                “Vegeta, don’t…” she paused, about to say _don’t talk to me like that_ , but then she thought differently about it. Maybe she’d let him get all riled up, let him think he was going to get some when he arrived, and then she’d flat out deny him. Only problem was that she’d never be able to resist him, and she knew it.

                “Don’t what?”

                “Don’t…don’t use up all your energy before you get here.” Bulma breathed, and signed off before he got a chance to respond. She was hot all over, and she hadn’t even really let him get to the good parts yet. The amazing thing about it was that she was pretty sure she was still really mad at him, yet she knew that if he were in the lab with her at that moment, she’d be on her back on the table. What the fuck was it about him? No other man had been able to piss her off and turn her on at the same time. Maybe saiyans exuded some kind of super-pheromone that made women – and Puars – everywhere fall to their knees and beg for it.

*

                Vegeta groaned as the line went dead, allowing his head to fall back even as his fingers moved across the keyboard to terminate the program. He hadn’t intended for the conversation to get so sexual, but the moment he’d heard her sigh, it had been like a switch was flipped in his brain and all he could think about were the sounds she’d made as he moved within her, the soft panting and moans of a desirable woman in the throes of release. The kind of woman who blushed with embarrassment, even as she boldly demanded to be fucked in a shower stall.

                Gods, she made him hot. He’d actually intended to tell her about the visit, to tell her about Kakarott and his plans for the half-wit father of the surprisingly smart Gohan. He’d wanted to warn her, let her get all her foolish excitement out before he showed up so that he wouldn’t have to watch her fawn all over the low class weakling like he knew she would. Her affection for absolutely everyone around her was trying, at times, and since he’d never had a platonic female friend of his own, he had a hard time imagining that nothing had ever gone on between Bulma and her ‘ _best friend Goku_.’

                Ugh, what a terrible name, Vegeta thought as he forced his attention to linger on the newest member of his little saiyan troupe. It was really too bad that they’d have to sent Kakarott away, but as he was, he wouldn’t be of any use to them. There was no way he’d be able to recover from the wasting, surrounded by the stresses and demands of Frieza’s army. Vegeta also recalled Gohan’s initial meeting with Frieza quite clearly, and were he to take the father under their wing, the little lizard would most certainly be curious; Vegeta was certain Kakarott’s meeting with the tyrant would end up just like his son’s.

                And Piccolo, the green man whom Gohan so respected, what would they do with him, should they keep Kakarott? Vegeta never took on anyone but other saiyans, so it would seem mighty odd for him to suddenly insist upon enlisting a Namek to his squad. No, they would both go to Red Station. Being with his mate would be good for Kakarott, according to Nappa, and Vegeta was inclined to agree. That, and he really didn’t want to go see Tarble…

…

…

                …And though he didn’t want to admit it, judging by the thoroughly unintended path of their conversation, he did really want to see Bulma.

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That’s all for today, folks. I have to say, I’m happy to be taking these boys back to Red Station – that’s where all the fun happens. ;3


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: I seem to apologize for being late a lot…being involved in someone else’s wedding is time consuming. On a positive note, stuff happens in this chapter!

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PRESENT DAY

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                Bulma was a wreck all week. Having Vegeta show up out of the blue had been stressful, yes, but it had also been over quickly. This time she knew he was coming, and she knew what he expected from her. The problem was that she didn’t know what she expected from herself. Or from him, for that matter. Was she just going to hop back into bed with him without a word? Lie back and get fucked, then get _fucked over_ when he up and left again? Would he up and leave again? She didn’t know, and it drove her crazy.

                Boundaries. She needed to talk to Vegeta before they ended up naked again, and set down rules, expectations. Like no more unprotected sex, no more destroying mementos of Yamcha, no disappearing in the night without a word…pfft. Yeah right. She could just imagine sitting Vegeta down and setting up some pre-sex rules…He’d more than likely break them, on purpose, the second he pulled out.

                God, why was she even thinking of allowing him back into her bed? If she were smart, she’d make him beg for it, tease him till his balls were blue, and then tell him to go fuck himself. “Why am I over thinking this?” She asked aloud, not realizing that her mother had walked into the lab and was standing behind her, bearing cookies and milk.

                “Over thinking what, honey?” Mrs. Briefs asked as she set the tray down in front of her daughter, who always marvelled at the way the glass didn’t even wobble. Bulma quickly grabbed a cookie and dunked it before popping it into her mouth.

                “Ahh, nothing Mom.” Bulma mumbled around her full mouth, trying to weasel her way out of the awkward conversation she knew would follow if she told her mom what was going on. “I’m just stressing over gravity room details, now that the saiyans are coming back.”

                “Oh, yes, those lovely young men.” The blonde beamed, and Bulma wondered how anyone could use the word ‘lovely’ to describe a group that included Nappa. “Oh, dear,” Bulma’s mother patted her shoulder suddenly, as a thought popped into her head, “do you have lots of condoms?”

                “Wh…what?” Bulma shrieked, spraying cookie crumbs all over her workspace.

                “Oh, honey, don’t talk with your mouth full.” Mrs. Briefs admonished, snagging a rag from Bulma’s work table to swipe up the mess. “And don’t act as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. That Vegeta is just _perfect_ for you.”

                “Mom, don’t be silly,” Bulma forced a laugh, “there’s no way that’s happening.”

                “Oh, didn’t it already?” Mrs. Briefs squinted at her daughter, her rarely seen stern-mother side surfacing as Bulma shrunk back. This side of her mother surfaced about once every decade or so. “Because I might be mistaken, but I thought I raised my daughter to have a little self respect, and to only give it up to men she was serious about!”

                “Oh God,” Bulma groaned, burying her face in her hands. Why did her mother pick the most awkward times to be observant? She hadn’t felt this embarrassed since being caught making out with Yamcha on the garden swing when she was seventeen, when her mother had handed them a pack of rubbers and given them “the talk.” Bulma had been mortified, and Yamcha hadn’t been able to show his face at the Cc compound for weeks afterward. Vegeta didn’t seem so easily embarrassed, but Bulma was willing to bet that he wasn’t above blowing her mother up if she irritated him too much.

                “Oh, honey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” Mrs. Briefs chirped and pulled up a chair. “Vegeta’s a very handsome man, and with Yamcha gone for some time now, it’s only natural that you’d be looking for someone else.”

                “How did you find out? Did Puar tell? I’ll wring his scrawny neck.” Bulma muttered, and her mother laughed.

                “Oh, sweetkin, I’m your mom. We just _know_ these sorts of things. Now,” she stood up and patted her daughter on the head, “play safe, and eat those cookies. Men like a girl with some curves on her. Trust me, I know!” She winked and did a little shimmy, shaking her rounded hips from side to side.

                Bulma moaned, burying her head in her arms as her mother danced her way out of the lab. She’d grown quite accustomed to living in such close quarters over the past three years, but in moments such as these, a little privacy was what she craved most. One day, when the threat of Frieza was gone and the universe a safe place to live, Bulma thought, she’d find herself a nice, green little planet and stake out acres and acres of land, all for herself. It would be heaven. But until then, she had to resign herself to the fact that she could hardly walk two feet in this place without running into someone. And soon the saiyans would arrive and it would be even more crowded. They were overdue, in fact, and everyone was that much more agitated, waiting for them to arrive.

*

*

                Zarbon couldn’t keep the frown from his lips as he finished tying off the braid in his hair. He usually liked to start the day with a smile, corny as it sounded, but he worried about marring his skin with unsightly lines, such as those that frowning produced. He wanted to keep his beauty for as long as he could. He had decent reason for his unhappy expression, however, as he’d just received a very important communiqué from one of his best sources. Arxin was dead, found murdered in one of the sheds at the slaver compound where he worked, presumably by the buyer of two particularly strong and rebellious pieces of merchandise. No one had seen the buyers come, no one had seen them go, and the money that made sure no one investigated the instance as theft had come from some untraceable account under a name that had more than likely been made up.

                Zarbon sighed and forced his features into a more neutral expression. It wasn’t as though he’d particularly liked Arxin; they’d spoken only a handful of times, but the man had been somewhat useful, and Zarbon hated to see such a person go to waste. Trustworthy sources were hard to find in Frieza’s corner of the universe, where money overrode loyalty, and the threat of pain was the king of bargaining tools.

                No matter, thought Zarbon as he leaned close to his mirror and plucked a stray from one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. There was no time to dwell on the situation, as he was expected shortly in Frieza’s throne room and he knew better than to be late. He’d find someone else; he always did. In the meantime, there was an angry lizard to be placated. Neither Vegeta nor Ginyu had reported anything new on the Vengeance situation in weeks, though each claimed to always be right on the cusp of a new discovery. Zarbon secretly hoped that they both continued to fail; despite the fact that he’d suggested Ginyu’s involvement in the first place, he had no faith in the flamboyant captain and had quite enjoyed watching Vengeance continually evade and outthink Frieza’s favourite pets, despite the fact that he was often left to deal with the tyrant’s wrath.

                Sometimes Zarbon wondered what Frieza would do to him, if he only knew that his little lap dog was secretly playing for the other team. When he’d first started down this dangerous path, he’d fantasized about running away, about deserting his sadistic master and bringing all his knowledge to the resistance. It had been a glorious daydream and a much needed dose of escapism, but Zarbon was a smart man and he knew that he could be of more use if he stayed put, remained the Master’s pet and kept his trust. All the pain of staying would be worth it if someone out there could bring Frieza down. Until then he would remain at the monster’s side, subtly sabotaging the empire so that while it grew, it did not always thrive. It was all he could do from his place, so he regretfully left the obvious destruction to crusaders like Vengeance, who were more willing to put themselves on the line.

*

*

                Goku hauled himself up from the floor, limbs shaking, as Radditz looked on with a frown. It was obvious that his brother was disappointed in him, though Goku couldn’t have cared less at the moment. He was tired and hungry, and he was absolutely fed up with being everyone’s punching bag. He’d always been one to enjoy a challenge, but he was being absolutely decimated in every match and after several weeks’ worth of bruises upon bruises, sparring with the saiyans had begun to lose its charm.

                “C’mon dad!” Gohan called cheerfully from the sidelines, and even Goku, with all his typical obliviousness, could tell that it was forced. “You can do it!” The boy pumped a fist and beside him, Piccolo grimaced. Once upon a time, Goku would have been bouncing around the room, cheerfully taking the abuse for the sheer enjoyment of the challenge. Instead, he was dragging himself wearily about, just barely picking himself up every time he was knocked down. Piccolo’s frown deepened. The two brothers were not so unevenly matched in power that Goku should be losing so badly; Piccolo could feel it. Yes, Radditz was stronger, but not by such a massive margin.

                “I think that’s enough for today, Kakarott.” Radditz said, then motioned to Gohan. “Come spar with me, brat.” Gohan bounced up and bounded toward his uncle, patting his father’s shoulder as he passed.

                “Don’t call him that,” came Goku’s voice, oddly low, as soon as his son’s hand left his shoulder. He straightened, painfully, and fixed Radditz with a glare. “And my name is Goku.”

                “Dad, it’s okay.” Gohan stepped nervously between his father and his uncle, who returned the glare.

                “Your name is Kakarott,” Radditz crossed his arms nonchalantly, though Gohan could see irritation in the way that the tip of his tail twitched. Goku was not so versed in reading the peculiarites of saiyan body language. “And I will call the cub whatever I want. Won’t I, brat?” Radditz turned his eyes to Gohan, who stood anxiously between the two posturing men, caught up in their dominance display. “I think I’ve earned the right, seeing as I’ve been the closest thing to a father for the last three years.”

                “He’s _my_ son!” Goku snarled back, dropping into an offensive stance.

                “Dad, Radditz,” Gohan begged, spreading his arms so that one palm pointed at each relative. “Please.”

                “And who do you have to thank for this happy reunion?” Radditz let his air of haughty superiority drop as he shifted his weight, ready to counter should his brother spring at him.

                “Certainly not you!” Goku shot back. “I thought that was Vegeta.” He watched Radditz’s tail uncoil and his brows furrowed, recalling a little fact that he’d not thought of in a long time. His fingertips began to itch, wanting to wrap around that furry appendage and yank for all he was worth.

                “Dad,” Gohan pleaded again, turning toward his father. His tail had come loose from around his waist as well, but unlike Radditz’s thrashing one, Gohan’s was curling and uncurling with the jittering of his nerves. Goku watched it for a brief second before his eyes trailed over his son and he realized how strongly Gohan resembled his uncle. It wasn’t just the facial structure or the tail, but the clothes, the hair, even his stance; Gohan had modelled himself after this man, this usurper of fatherhood.

                “Step aside, Gohan.” Goku growled in a voice that only Piccolo had ever heard him use.

                “You’d better do as he says.” The green man was suddenly on the mat, his hand coming down to rest on Gohan’s shoulder. The boy jumped in surprise and for a second the ire of both adult saiyans was directed solely at Piccolo. “You two beat the hell out of each other, for all I care.” He looked pointedly at them both. “But don’t forget, surrounded by all this testosterone, the reason why you’re at each other’s throats.”

                “Aww, fuck.” Radditz straightened, suddenly sheepish. “Had to ruin a good buzz, didn’t you, green man?” He stepped back, hands held upright in front of his chest. “Sorry, cub. No hard feelings, bro?” He turned to Gohan and Goku in succession. “We’ll duke it out another time, Kakarott.” He winked and offered a hand, which Goku took after a stunned moment.

                “Goku.” He said, as he shook his long-lost brother’s hand and felt, for the first time since being brought aboard, a small sense of camaraderie with the strange group that Gohan called his second family. Radditz grinned, and Goku was glad that his own canines were not so large and pronounced. He was sure that Chichi would not have appreciated it if Gohan had inherited teeth like knives. Oh well, he thought, no need to worry about the kid getting into a good school or mixing with the right kind of people now.

Goku released his brother’s hand and looked at the boy between them. Gohan had mentioned Chichi, told him about the time he’d spent with his mother, Bulma, Krillin and the others at Red station, and he couldn’t help but to wonder how his staid and proper wife had reacted to the three men who’d become surrogate parents to their son.

                He also wondered how they’d reacted to _her_.

                Radditz frowned, a deep gouge forming between his lowered eyebrows, and shook his head. “We will call you Kakarott, or we will call you nothing. Vegeta’s orders.” His tail twitched and he looked defiant, stubborn. His voice was hard when he next spoke, not at all akin to the teasing, rudely playful drawl that Goku was used to. “And I will not disrespect our father by shitting on the name he gave you.”

                Goku watched his son wince as Radditz turned and stalked stiffly from the training room, tail winding itself tightly around his waist once more. “Dad,” Gohan said softly, once his uncle had gone, “you really have to learn to watch what you say to them.”

                “Huh? What did I do?” Goku was genuinely puzzled by the reaction of both his brother and his son. He picked up a towel from the floor and wiped his face, waiting for Gohan to continue.

                “It’s…complicated.” The boy sighed, sounding easily three times his age. “But you have to understand that being ‘saiyan’ is everything to them. Disrespect any part of their heritage or their history, even the parts they complain about, and you’ll have three very powerful enemies for life.” He shrugged, helplessly. “They aren’t going to understand that you don’t get it. I think they were more lenient with me because I was just a kid when they found me, but you’re full grown and they’re going to be confused that you aren’t like they are.”

                “Gohan,” Goku paused, stuck on one short phrase that his son had uttered, “you still _are_ a kid. No matter what they want from you, what they’ve made of you, you’re still a little boy. My little boy.” He cracked a smile and reached out to ruffle Gohan’s hair.

                “Not you too, dad.” Gohan stepped back, leaving his surprised father with a hand out in thin air. “I thought it’d be different with you!” He snapped, sounding frustrated. “It’s not us and them, and what they’ve _made of me_ is a living, breathing person, instead of the rotting corpse I’m sure I would have been.”

                “Gohan, I didn’t mean it that way.” Goku reached out again, his efforts useless as his son ducked from his grasp once more.

                “Yes you did, dad.” Gohan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm his frayed nerves. He wasn’t mad, not really. He knew that his parents hadn’t exactly shared his particular situation, but he thought his father might have been a little more understanding, and he felt foolish and disappointed, as though he should have known better. “You and mom both…you think that these three years never happened, that I’m just some five year old kid who still cries when he falls down and scrapes a knee.” He looked his father in the eye, and Goku was shocked to see the old soul staring him down. Gohan had always been mature, but the eight year old in front of him seemed already an old man. “Well dad, I’ve done a lot worse than scrape my knee, and it’s been a lone time since I’ve cried.”

                “Sorry to bust up the happy family,” Vegeta interrupted from the doorway just as Goku opened his mouth to reply, “but we’re docking soon. Gohan, get your ass to the control deck and take your position.” He jerked his head toward the hallway and watched with hawklike eyes as the boy scuttled past him, face pointed toward the floor.

                “Um…how long’ve you been there?” Goku asked, one hand nervously scratching the back of his head. Vegeta glowered, finding the habit incredibly annoying; such obvious discomfort, such a lack of pride was unbecoming of a saiyan.

                “Long enough.” The prince grunted and pushed himself away from the doorjamb where he’d been leaning. He stalked up to Goku and planted himself before the other man, feet spread shoulder width apart, arms crossed over his chest, back strait and strong as a steel rod. Goku remained exactly as he’d been when he and Gohan had been interrupted; slightly slumped, weight resting unevenly, the absolute picture of disorganization. “Go get strapped in.”

                “Look Vegeta, I didn’t mean to –” Goku stammered, suddenly intimidated, despite the fact that he dwarfed the prince by nearly a foot.

                “Yes, you did.” Vegeta cut the younger man off, midsentence. “Don’t pretend sainthood to me, like you do with every other soul who thinks he knows you. You might not like to admit it, but you’ve nasty thoughts in your brain, just like the rest of us.” Vegeta scoffed at Goku’s surprised face, his wide eyes and slack mouth. “What little brain you have, I suppose.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Now I’m going to do you a favour and let you in on a little secret that your mate had to figure out for herself. That boy may be your son, but he is our kin and our comrade. Don’t underestimate such ties.”

                “I-“

                “Now go and strap the fuck in.” Vegeta said, and stepped away. “You’re holding us all up.” He left just as quickly as he came in, leaving a stunned Goku in his wake.

*

*

                “Crap!” Bulma swore as she swiped a smudge of black grease from her face. The saiyans were docking, several days late and completely unannounced of course, and she looked like shit. It was almost midnight and she’d been in the lab since about six that morning, working on various projects and not making much headway with any of them. She was sweaty from hauling machine parts around and her hair, perm having degenerated into some sort of wave, was pulled back into a messy, snarled ponytail, wisps and stubborn springs of hair protruding from her temples like so many horns.

                She really would have appreciated some warning; a few hours to primp and polish herself into something that would make Vegeta eat his heart out at having bolted on her. She grimaced at her reflection and cursed the saiyan prince. Not even time for a shower before the airlocks stabilized the oxygen content and pressure in the dock, thus allowing the saiyans full run of Red Station once more. Briefly, she considered ignoring their arrival, hopping into the shower and getting on with her life, but she knew that Gohan was visiting too and even though he’d only have eyes for his mother, Bulma thought it would be rude of her not to greet him.

                Swiping a hairbrush from the meagre pile of beauty supplies she kept in the lab, she yanked the elastic from her hair and dragged the brush through it before tying it back again in what she hoped was a slightly more flattering style. She splashed her face with a little water from the sink and patted her head to tame some of the more persistent flyaways. Better, but far from drop dead gorgeous.

                A gong sounded throughout the ship, indicating that the airlocks were opening, so Bulma abandoned her mirror and zipped her coveralls up a little higher to cover the stains on her shirt. She’d spilled some coffee on herself much earlier in the day and had been much too lazy to bother changing; an oversight which she regretted deeply. Gods, she looked like trash; Vegeta would be glad that he’d run when he caught sight of her.

                “Fuck him.” She said viciously, swiping some of the shine from her forehead with the sleeve of her coveralls. She wasn’t wearing makeup, her hair was a disaster, and she probably stunk like sweat and grease. If he didn’t like it, he could just go to hell! With that thought in mind, she lifted her chin, stuck out her chest and strode out into the hallway, back straight, pride intact as though she were the Queen of Sheba, resplendent in silk and jewels, rather than a grubby frump with a wrench in her pocket.

                When she arrived, the airlock doors were just beginning to crack. Nobody expected Dr. Gero or Tien to show up, but everyone else had already gathered to say hello so Bulma sidled up beside Chichi, who was busy wringing her apron between fidgeting fingers. Bulma put a hand on the dark haired woman’s shoulder and squeezed. “I promise to behave this time,” she whispered with a little grin, “so they won’t have to leave so soon.”

                “Oh, I bet you’ll _behave_ all right.” Chichi directed a sidelong glance at her friend and snickered under her breath. “Should have figured he’d be all into that dominance and submission stuff.” She shrugged nonchalantly, then wheezed when Bulma elbowed her in the ribs. Sixteen had come to stand on Chichi’s other side, rather closer than necessary, and Bulma knew for a fact that they had been spending a _lot_ of time together lately…mostly because she’d spent a lot of her own time wondering what they could possibly be doing…

                “You don’t want me to start a dirty innuendo war, Chi, believe me.” Bulma whispered back. “I’ll destroy you. You’ll have a permanent blush for the rest of your life.”

                “Well, I guess I’d save on makeup.” Chichi cracked, then turned back toward the doors, where the saiyans were stepping out from behind a single ship, much different from the individual pods of last time. Bulma, eyes still on her friend, saw eyebrows come together in confusion, the barest hint of a frown on Chichi’s face. She turned toward their guests herself and her own face did the same as she noted their number; two bodies too many.

                “Oh my god.” Bulma whispered, her eyes wide as she realized just who was standing there, looking so small behind Nappa and Radditz. “Goku!” She shrieked as her feet began to move of their own accord, carrying her pell-mell across the distance to throw her body into his arms. He caught her, laughing, in a great bear hug and lifted her from the ground briefly. Stone silence had turned into excited chatter as everyone crowded around him, eager to get their own hug or handshake, even just see him up close.

                Only Gohan noticed his mother, still far off in one corner of the room, clinging to Sixteen for support as tears rolled down her pale face. He’d watched, as though in slow motion, as she caught sight of her long lost husband, eyes wide and her pink, happy cheeks suddenly draining of all colour. Her knees had buckled and Sixteen’s hands had been there to catch her, cradle her, as she tried to pull herself together. Gohan looked to his father, smiling and laughing surrounded by his friends, and he was suddenly angry. Why couldn’t he see her up there? Why hadn’t he looked first for the woman who was supposed to have been his mate? Gohan knew that if it were one of the other saiyans, Vegeta perhaps, then nothing would have stood between himself and the one most important to him.

                Suddenly, and with startling clarity, he recalled the day of Earth’s destruction and how his father had laughingly blown everything off to go fishing on a whim. He’d blatantly ignored his wife’s wishes and broken yet another promise to her. Had his father always been so selfish? Had he always put Chichi’s needs on the back burner while tending to his own desires? Gohan didn’t want to think it, but there it was, staring him right in the face in a way he couldn’t ignore.

                Just as those uncharitable thoughts were taking shape inside Gohan’s brain, Bulma was tugging Goku by the arm, trying to pull him from the knot of friends clustered around him. “Chichi is over there!” She said, and Goku’s eyes followed her pointed finger to see his wife, pale faced and weak, surrounded and supported by the arms of another man.

                A strangled growl escaped his throat, quite without his permission, and he felt his friends fall back, the pressure of Bulma’s grip on his wrist dropping away as tension spread throughout his body. He lurched forward, two steps, then halted as though he was as surprised with his reaction as all his friends. He was panting with the effort to draw breath, as though the red haze that seemed to obstruct his vision had also blocked his airways. The tips of his fingers tingled, whether with the urge to touch his wife or strangle her new beau he was not sure. He clenched the fingers of his left hand into a fist and a bolt of pain shot up his arm, as he reached out with his right then pulled back, uncertain.

                The weight of someone’s hand on his shoulder surprised him and he stiffened, tense and ready to attack, only to relax again when he caught green fingers in his peripheral vision, their long and pointed nails all but digging into him. “Goku, calm down.” Piccolo ordered quietly as he squeezed the other man’s shoulder. Goku nodded briskly, finally managing to tear his eyes from the disturbing sight before him.

                A howl tore from Chichi’s mouth at that point, and with sudden strength, she wrenched herself from Sixteen’s arms and stomped toward her husband. He looked up, a hopeful smile on his face, even as she drew back and slapped his cheek for all she was worth. “Bastard!” She sobbed, falling into his arms and burying her face in his shirt, bawling as she clung to him. Goku, as surprised as anyone, drew his wife against him, held her close and buried his face in her hair. He looked up and caught the unhappy look on Sixteen’s face, bared his teeth at the big man and rumbled out a throaty growl without even really thinking about what he was doing. Sixteen stepped back, turned, and walked from the docking bay without a word.

                “We should leave them be,” a low voice said, and Bulma turned to find Vegeta beside her, a frown fixed firmly on his face as he squinted at the reunited couple. Bulma looked around to find that Nappa had already left the dock, and Radditz was leading Gohan away just as quickly, one big hand on the little boy’s back. “Things could get…ah…personal soon,” the intonation in Vegeta’s voice made her shiver, “if Kakarott’s reaction to Sixteen’s presence is any indication.”

                “Kakarott?” Bulma asked, choosing not to focus on Vegeta’s nearness, the way he stood just a fraction closer than appropriate.

                “His name. The one his people gave him.”

                Bulma rolled her eyes. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I think he’d consider us earthlings to be his people, if you asked.”

                “Hmph.” Vegeta scoffed. “I didn’t ask, did I?”

                “Of course you wouldn’t.” Bulma shrugged and turned to follow the others. “You just do, just assume and beat everyone into doing what you want them to.”

                “Whatever works.” The saiyan returned and Bulma couldn’t help but laugh a little. Vegeta was the kind of man who hardly joked and when he did, if you weren’t paying attention or didn’t know him well, you might miss it completely.

                “Oh dear, we’re going to need to change up the sleeping arrangements, aren’t we?” Mrs. Briefs was saying, just as Bulma and Vegeta joined everyone else in the common room of the living quarters. “Now, who would you like to room with, dear?” She asked, squinting up at Piccolo, all the while managing to ignore the tension that his presence created in those that had known him on Earth.

                “He’s not the old Demon King,” Gohan piped up, stepping forward to stand beside the tall Namek. “He merged with Kami back on Earth, I saw it!”

                “So who are you, then?” Bulma demanded, hand on hip.

                “My name is Piccolo.” He crossed his arms and did his best not to glare at everyone around him. “As the boy said, I am the union of Kami and the Demon King, the best qualities of both good and evil combined.”

                “Ahh, so you’re like a normal person now, right?” Bulma shrugged, her typical fearless nature coming to the fore. “Okay, you can stay, but be good, okay? When in doubt, follow the Kami side. Now then, if nobody minds, it’s almost one in the morning and I’m getting tired, so let’s figure out the bunking arrangements. I’m assuming that Goku’s going to stay with Chi so Gohan and Radditz, why don’t you two share again? Assuming Vegeta gets his own room again, Piccolo and Nappa, you guys are bed buddies. There, done!” Bulma brushed her palms together, as though beating dust from them. Piccolo and Nappa both looked at each other and shrugged; just because they had to sleep in the same room didn’t mean they had to socialize. Gohan snickered behind his hand as he imagined the stoic namekian trapped in a room with Nappa’s night time smells and sounds.

                “Oh Bulma!” Her mother admonished her. “Don’t be rude! We haven’t even offered our guests anything to eat yet!

                “Mom, it’s the middle of the night.” Bulma moaned, knowing that everyone would probably follow, and she’d be expected to stay up and be a good hostess.

                “But they’ve just arrived.” Hands on hips, Mrs. Briefs turned toward the new arrivals. “Now boys, whoever would like a snack can follow me into the kitchen.” She sashayed off, hips wiggling as she went, and Bulma was shocked and a little bothered to see Nappa’s eyes dart down to her mother’s backside before he followed her down the hall. Gohan and Radditz went too, though Vegeta and Piccolo stayed behind.

                “What, not hungry?” Bulma teased the saiyan prince beside her. “I thought you guys were always starving.” Vegeta glared at her.

                “I’m, uhh, gonna go find Sixteen.” Krillin said, interrupting the look between them. “Make sure he’s okay.”

                “Oh, wow.” Bulma felt her stomach flop with guilt; she hadn’t had a thought to spare for the poor android since Vegeta had stepped up next to her. His proximity scattered her brain, impaired her ability to think rationally and about any topic but him. “Yeah, I didn’t even think of that. You want me to come?”

                Krillin looked between her and Vegeta, read the death threat on the older man’s face, and shook his head. “Nah, you go ahead and get some…sleep. I’m just going to go check on him.” He turned and took himself away, wishing that Vegeta hadn’t been there. He really would have liked Bulma to come along; he wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t even sure how he felt about it. Goku had been his best friend and was Gohan’s father, but Sixteen had helped Chichi pick up the pieces of her life in the aftermath of tragedy, never asking for more than her company.

                He knocked on Sixteen’s door, and a deep voice bade him enter. “Hello Krillin.” Sixteen’s voice came out a little muffled, bent as he was over his desk. “What can I do for you?” He turned a little so that he could look his visitor in the eyes, and Krillin was surprised to see that his left chest panel was open.

                “I came to see if you were okay.” Krillin walked over and perched on the bed. He saw that Sixteen had pulled some component from his chest and was fiddling with it.

                “Why would I be otherwise?” Sixteen asked in his dry, mechanical voice as he replaced a tiny screw into one corner of the boxy structure. “Chichi is my friend and I am happy to see her husband returned to her.” He picked the box up and fitted it gingerly back into place with a snap.

                “Why did you leave then?” Krillin persisted and Sixteen paused in the middle of closing his chest plate. He shut and fastened it after a moment of quiet, though his big hand remained atop the panel, resting lightly as though he might need to open it again.

                “One of my components felt suddenly damaged,” he said, “so I came here to fix it.” Sixteen turned fully toward Krillin. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

                “Ahh, no. Just wanted to check up on you.” Krillin rubbed the back of his bald head nervously and wondered if it had occurred to Sixteen to lie, or if he really didn’t understand what was going on with him. Or perhaps, Krillin thought, they’d all misinterpreted the strange sort of relationship that Chichi shared with the big android and attributed human feelings in him where none actually existed. Again, he wished Bulma was there. She was good at reading people and at getting them to admit stuff they’d never intended to tell another living soul. Krillin was easy to talk to, but he’d always had a hard time encouraging people to open up and quite frankly, if Sixteen didn’t realize his own heart was breaking, Krillin didn’t want to be the one to tell him.  “Guess I’ll go.” He hopped off the bed and slunk out the door, where he ran into Puar.

                “Is he okay?” The cat asked, concerned.

                “Yeah, I think so…hey where were you anyway?” Krillin was suddenly puzzled. He couldn’t remember seeing the cat anywhere at the loading dock and he’d been absent in the living quarters as well.

                “I was there.” Puar insisted, suddenly defensive. He floated backward a few feet, whiskers twitching under Krillin’s scrutiny. “Anyway, as long as everything is okay, I’m going to bed. Good night!” he squeaked and bolted away through the air.

                “Ugh, everybody here’s nuts but me.” Krillin muttered and took himself off to bed.

*

                Down in the loading dock, Goku and Chichi were still tangled in a tight embrace. Neither knew how long they had been like that, but their tears had dried and their sobs had quieted first into soft hiccups, heavy breathing, and then nothing but the sounds of normal people in some state of contentment.

                “Chi, I missed you so much,” Goku breathed, his face buried in the crook of her neck. “I’d started to think I’d never see you again.” He shuddered and squeezed tighter, pulling her to him as she tried to step back.”

                “Goku, let go, I can’t breath.” Chichi hiccupped, pushing with all her might against his chest. Weak as he was compared to what the Saiyans had hoped he’d be, Goku was still much stronger than his wife.

                “Wow, Chi, you got much stronger since I last saw you.” Goku marvelled, not budging as she continued to struggle against his grip.

                “It’s been three years, ugh, oof!” She wheezed as he hugged her tighter for a few seconds, just long enough to squeeze all the air out of her. “And I’ve been training with Krillin and Tien…” she paused, “and Sixteen.”

                “The big one?” His voice dipped, low and dangerous like it only ever did when he was facing down a serious enemy. The last time she’d heard him sound like that, he’d been fighting Piccolo at the last Boudokai back on Earth. She felt his body stiffen and tense up and this time when she pushed away, he let his arms fall from around her. “The one who had his arms around you?”

                “Sixteen has been a very good friend,” Chichi said tersely, not particularly liking the tone of his voice. She’d never seen Goku get jealous before and she wasn’t sure she liked it. The funny thing was that back on Earth, she’d sometimes been certain that if he walked in and caught her naked with another man, his first reaction would be to ask her if dinner would still be on time.

                “Oh, has he?” Goku examined his wife through narrowed eyes. “How good a friend?” He asked, and seeing her pale face flush crimson, he knew it had been a bad idea to ask. And yet some part of him needed to know. His stomach twisted; he didn’t like that part of himself very much at the moment, and yet he could do little to tamp it down.

                “How dare you?” Chichi exploded, her fists balling at her sides, positively aching to close around the cold weight of a cast-iron frying pan.

                “I’m your _husband_ , Chi.” Goku insisted.

                “ _Don’t_ call me that.” Chichi hissed, stepping back as tears threatened to start falling again. “Don’t call me _anything_ , Goku, because right now, to me, you’re just the irresponsible bastard who got himself and my son tossed into hell, when he could have been safe all along.” She spun on her heel and stormed out, past the surprised trio in the common room and the baffled group gathered in the kitchen, straight into her room where – because she could not slam the door – she punched the door close button as hard as she could without damaging it. The shrill blip of an electronic lock switching on pierced the suddenly silent air.

                A moment later, Goku stepped sheepishly into the common room. “So, um, Bulma…” he scratched the back of his head, “where should I sleep?”

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So that’s that for today. Lemme know what you thought. :D


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Sorry for the delay. That wedding I was in is done now so I am hoping to have the next update out a little quicker. Then after that I’m afraid it might be a bit…florist + mother’s day = busy as hell.

Thanks so much for the reviews on chapter 24, they are much appreciated and are really what forced me to sit my butt down and finally finish this chapter. : D

Last time: The saiyans arrive at Red Station once more. Goku and Chichi have a fight over Goku’s suspicions regarding his wife and Sixteen.

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PRESENT DAY

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                G _oku stepped sheepishly into the common room. “So, um, Bulma…” he scratched the back of his head, “where should I sleep?”_

In the end Goku bunked with Krillin, sprawled out on a cot in the monk’s room, staring at the ceiling as he replayed the ugly scene over and over in his brain. What had gotten into him, he wondered, when he saw his wife in that giant’s arms? For three long years he’d kept his sanity by thinking of her, and then to arrive and find that she’d moved on had been too much to take. But had she moved on? She’d been pretty pissed at his implication. If she hadn’t already forgotten about him, she probably would have by morning.

Frustrated, he tugged at his hair. More than any other time in his life, he felt stupid! Why hadn’t he just let it be? There had been a time during his imprisonment, lots of times, actually, when he’d fantasized that she’d done just this; found someone new, made a new life without him, found happiness. The thought of her living on contentedly had comforted him and yet when he’d been confronted with the reality, something inside had snapped and gone haywire. In his fantasies the complication of his presence had never come about, because he really hadn’t believed he’d ever see her again, and now it was all coming up to bite him in the ass.

Absurdly, he wondered if the gods of the universe had granted his fervent wishes; if all of his hopes and dreams for her had come true while he neglected the possibility that he would meet up with her again. Damn.

Because the ceiling was doing him no good, Goku rolled onto his side and stared at the wall instead. He tried focusing on the details of Krillin’s room in an effort to avoid thinking about the blow up with Chichi, but it was impossible. He was tired and his heart felt as though it had been crushed, and all he wanted in the world was to fall asleep for a few hours to he wouldn’t have to deal with it. In the morning he’d apologize and hope he hadn’t messed it up too badly. Goku wished that they were back on Earth; at least that way he could have walked into the woods and picked her some wildflowers, like he used to when there wasn’t enough money to spare for a birthday present, or when he’d forgotten their anniversary till the last minute. Out here on Red Station, there was nothing he could give her but a…a…a stolen pencil from Krillin’s desk, he thought as his eyes roved the room. He couldn’t even give her the shirt off his back, because it belonged to Radditz and he was just borrowing it for the time being. They’d thrown out his old one, filthy and torn as it was. He’d been happy to see it go at the time, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Goku huffed and punched his pillow, forcing the stuffing into one end as he folded it in half and slipped it back under his neck. For the first time in his life, he really felt lost. What was there to keep him going, if not anger at his captors, or hope for his life with Chichi? Even Gohan had Radditz and the other saiyans; he didn’t need his father anymore, did he? His wife and son had other people to take care of them now; what need did they have of him?

His stomach curdled at the thought of what Chichi had said to him and though he was angry with her lack of sympathy, he couldn’t help but feel that she’d been right. If he’d kept his promise to come to Bulma’s instead of goofing off, both he and Gohan would have been safe in Capsule 1 during the invasion of Frieza’s forces. They’d have spent the last three years living cosily in Red Station with all of their family and friends, instead of being separated and sent off to slave camps, and Gohan would never have been exposed to all the horrors he’d been forced to endure as part of Frieza’s ranks. Chichi wouldn’t have had to seek comfort in the arms of another man…

Goku squeezed his eyes shut and began counting – anything to distract his thoughts from all the upsetting images that his mind was producing.

*

It might have eased Goku’s conscience a little to know that Chichi was just as awake and just as miserable as she lay stiffly in her own bed. The sheets beneath her were rumpled and bunched from all her shifting, her attempts to get comfortable, and a ridge of folded fabric was pressing painfully up into her left shoulder blade. With a huff, she sprang from her bed, tossing the covers on the floor. Viciously, she tugged and yanked and tucked until the fitted sheet was perfectly straight and smooth. By the time she’d wrestled the covers into place, she was breathing hard.

Chichi crawled back into bed and tucked the blankets tightly around herself, despite the fact that she was warm from the exertion of her overzealous bed-making. Guilt gnawed at her stomach as she thought of what she’d said to Goku back in the hangar. She knew it wasn’t kind to blame him after all that he’d been through, but she was angry and hurt and just plain shocked, and she couldn’t help the bitter, selfish feelings that had flooded her mind when he’d said what he did, acting as if she were his possession. He’d had no right, she thought angrily, to show up out of nowhere and demand that she fall in line, assume the persona of the woman she’d been on earth. It wasn’t fair of him to ask that she open her heart and share feelings that even she remained confused by.

Or was it? Goku was her husband, after all. They’d made a life together, had a son, so didn’t that make it his business if she was having feelings for someone else? Still, to demand such knowledge during their reunion had been rude and tactless, completely unacceptable. He might have taken some time, she reasoned, to talk to her, get to know the woman she’d become, tell her how happy he was to see her, before demanding every detail of her life without him. She’d thought him dead, or at least gone forever. Who could blame her for trying to move on and find some joy in this bleak existence?

Chichi rolled over and stared through the darkness at her bedroom door. She thought briefly of getting out of bed to go find Goku, but it was very late and she didn’t want to go knocking on doors in the middle of the night when she wasn’t even sure what she wanted to say to him. Her own heart was fighting itself – on one side furious at all he’d done, and the other so full of joy at his return that it was almost too much to bear.

Cringing, Chichi thought of Sixteen and how much she wished she could talk to him about it. He’d always been so supportive – a good listener with sound, logical advice. She’d spoken to him about Goku before and he seemed to harbour no ill will, no resentment or jealousy when she talked of the man she missed, but that had certainly changed the moment Goku went from a figment of her memories to a real, flesh and blood man in the same room. She couldn’t even imagine what must have been going through Sixteen’s head when she’d thrown herself into Goku’s embrace. There were his feelings to consider too, of course.

“Ugh, what have I gotten myself into?” Chichi moaned aloud, bringing her hands up to cover her face briefly, before letting them fall to the pillow above her head. “Shouldn’t have gotten myself involved with Sixteen in the first place…” she muttered, thinking that then she’d have been free to simply enjoy Goku’s return. But then again, without Sixteen’s constant support and friendship, she might have cracked long ago, and Goku would have returned to find a mere husk of his former wife.

Chichi groaned and rolled onto her stomach. No matter how much she didn’t want to do it, she was just going to have to suck it up and talk to them. The consequences would be hers to own and to live with, no matter what they were.

*

*

Bulma and Vegeta weren’t asleep either, but neither was so miserable as Goku or Chichi. To the contrary, they were quite content, considering all the tossing and turning they’d done together.

“You should have let Goku have your room,” Bulma stretched out, enjoying the heat of Vegeta’s bare skin against her own, “if you knew you were just going to come here anyway.” She smiled impishly as Vegeta glared at her from beneath lowered eyelids.

“Still thinking of Kakarott, even after all that?” He sneered, and Bulma pulled back a little in surprise. She couldn’t go too far, his arm around her like a steel band. Just by looking at him, she’d never have guessed he could be so heavy.

“What?” She teased, “Are you jealous?”

“Of a weakling? Never.” The prince scoffed as his eyes drifted shut again. Bulma was amused to see that the frown remained even as he feigned nonchalance. Come to think of it, the frown hardly ever left his face.

“Well good,” Bulma ran her palm across his chest as she snuggled against him, “because I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that Goku is just a friend, and I would _hate_ to think you didn’t believe me.” A short pause, “Though there was that time he saw my…” She trailed off, giggling as Vegeta began to grumble, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and tickling her ear. “We were _kids_ , Vegeta!” She howled with laughter, unable to stop herself as an indignant Vegeta shoved her off of him and onto her own pillow.

“Enough,” he growled into her ear as he rolled on top of her, momentarily squeezing the breath out of her before he picked his full weight up on his own arms, “no more talk of Kakarott. That third class fool has no place between us.”

“Vegeta!” Bulma squealed in surprise when he forced his knee between her legs, bringing it right up to press against her. She felt him hard against her belly. “Again?”

“Until you forget,” Vegeta nipped her shoulder, one hand snaking up to fist into her hair, pulling her head gently to the side so that he could kiss her neck, “everything but me.” He opened his mouth, clamping his jaw over her shoulder in a pressureless bite. She shivered as his teeth scraped gently against her skin.

“And what about you?” Bulma panted, sliding her fingers into his hair to pull him closer. “When do you forget about everything but me?”

“Silly girl.” Vegeta chuckled as he moved lower, trailing nips down from her neck to her breast. “I already have.” He paused, eyes narrowing as he realized the magnitude of the words that had escaped his mouth. “For tonight, at least.” He added. Bulma snorted and whacked him on the shoulder.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit.” She said, and pulled him up for a kiss on the mouth. “Jerk.” Vegeta smirked, but didn’t reply as he pulled away from her grip and worked his way under the blankets, nipping and licking down to the spot that would make her squeal. “Oh,” she breathed as his hands fastened on her hips, lips touching here, there, not yet in that oh-so-right place, “Vegeta…” She dug her fingers into his biceps, tugging upward. “Come back up here. I want you.” She whispered, letting go of him with one hand to reach for the box on the nightstand.

“Feh,” Vegeta dipped his tongue into her belly button then blew over the damp skin to make shivers run up her spine. “Are there even any left?” Bulma could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice and she shook the box, rattling its contents.

“Sounds like lots to me.” She grinned at him as she folded the covers back to expose his head. “Now get out here and help me make a dent in this pile.” She was already clamping one packet by the teeth, pulling with her other hand as she reached out to dump the box back on the bedside table. Gingerly, she pulled the condom from its foil sheath and sat up. “Come here. Let me put it on you.” How could he ignore an order like that? Vegeta sat up, the blankets falling back, slipping down off of his shoulders. “Lean back,” she commanded, putting one hand on his chest to push him. He did as he was told, bracing his weight with his arms, and spread his knees so she could get between. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back as her hand surrounded him, fingers gliding ever so lightly over his head and down the shaft. He felt her shift and opened his eyes to see her kneeling, bending down to take him between parted lips.

“Ahh,” the sound escaped involuntarily as he felt the slide of her tongue against him. She tilted her head to the side and he pushed her hair out of the way, holding it back so he could see the slow progress of his cock into her mouth. “Oh, fuck…” Vegeta moaned as he felt himself hit the back of her throat. He hissed, a slow release of air through his teeth as she pulled back, lips pressed tightly against him. She went down again, gripping the base of his shaft in her hand as she tortured the rest of him with her tongue. After one last lick, she rolled the condom down over him, pleased to see the impatient tension in his body as he waited for her to finish. “Come here,” he panted, pulling her gently over him as he sat back against the bunched blankets. “The better to see you with, my dear.” He brought both hands to her breasts, cupping their weight in his hands as she positioned herself over him.

“You know the big, bad wolf?” She asked coyly as she lowered herself, one hand between them to guide him in. She wondered what other bedtime stories Gohan must have shared with the saiyans.

“I _am_ the big, bad wolf.” Vegeta asserted with a grin befitting the title. He lifted his hips to meet her as she came down upon him, eliciting a soft squeak from her.

“Do you even know what a wolf is?” She laughed softly and brought her hands up to cover his own, which were still kneading her heavy breasts. Vegeta smirked up at her but didn’t say anything, which answered her question. He had no clue.

“I know all I need to know.” His hands slid down to her hips, which he pulled down at the same time as he rose up. “Predatory beasts, vicious killers, tricking pretty girls and eating them up.” He chuckled and Bulma leaned forward, bracing her weight with two hands on his chest.

“All stories, Ven. Wolves aren’t so bad.” She stretched out and kissed him hard, drawing a deep groan from his throat as her tongue forced its way inside his mouth. “Besides,” she panted, coming up for air, “some pretty girls like to be eaten up.” She kissed him again before he could reply, and that was the end of their conversation for the moment. They moved quickly; it was beyond late and the time for slow, languorous sex had passed with the hours. This round was about pure, raw pleasure. One last orgasm to flout in the face of the body’s need for sleep.

Vegeta had appeared, quite unexpectedly, at least an hour after everyone had gone to bed. Bulma had long since figured that he was avoiding her – she had looked truly atrocious in her grease-stained coveralls – and sulkily turned out her lights. He’d shown up just as she was drifting off to sleep and scared the shit out of her by letting himself in without even the simple courtesy of a knock. She’d rolled over to find him glaring at her in the dark, which was bad enough, but then he made it worse by putting his hand over her mouth to stop her from shrieking, which really startled her. That’s when the lights were turned on and two hours later, they’d yet to be put out.

“Vegeta,” Bulma gasped as he lifted her again, bringing her down on him, driving right into the sweet spot that made her toes curl. His hands on her hips were doing all the work; she was making a token effort, but the muscles in her legs were screaming in protest. “Ah!” she cried out as he did it again, her breasts bouncing with each thrust before Vegeta’s greedy eyes. Pausing their rhythm, Vegeta sat up, gently pulling Bulma’s legs so that they were wrapped more comfortably around his body, rather than bent along his sides. His arms moved up from her hips to her back, supporting her tired body so she didn’t have to do it herself.

“Better?” He asked and she nodded, surprised at the consideration. He pulled her close against him, wrapping one arm firmly around her back as the other trailed down to her bottom to hold her securely around him as he pushed quickly forward so that Bulma lay on her back with him on top. “This will be easier on you.” Vegeta muttered into her ear as he began to move again. “So I don’t have to hear you complaining tomorrow.”

“Wow, you know how to charm a girl.” Bulma managed, panting as he pushed her closer and closer toward release. She was feeling too good to be insulted.

“Why bother charming you?” He nuzzled her neck and opened his mouth to nip her skin. “All I have to do is touch you and you fall apart.” He punctuated this comment with a hard thrust that sent her spiralling over the edge. He allowed himself to let go too, unable to hold back as she convulsed around him.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Bulma huffed as they lay lazily afterward. He was still on top of her, his weight pressing down only as much as he allowed it, so as not to crush her.

“No, I’m pretty sure my parents were mated.” He quipped, rolling off to the side. Bulma watched his eyebrows come together in a frown and wondered what he was thinking. He so rarely volunteered any information having to do with himself or his past, so this slip really intrigued her. She wondered what his parents had been like, what exactly had happened to them. She wondered how much he remembered of them, and how much was wishful idealization. There was a lot she wanted to know about him, but she knew enough to understand that the second she started prying was the second he’d haul himself out of bed and leave, no matter the time.

“Mated?” She asked, settling for general information as she snuggled against his side. She felt his body tense and she lay still, stroking his chest as though she hadn’t just asked him to volunteer something. Had she still been watching his face, she would have seen the barest hint of colour rise to his cheeks.

“According to that fuckwit Nappa, it is a term for two permanently attached people. An emotional bond of sorts.” He spat, and Bulma patted him on the chest.

“I had no idea Saiyans were so romantic,” she mumbled, simply, even though she wanted to know so much more. Vegeta muttered something she couldn’t understand, possibly in his own language, and roughly disengaged himself from her embrace. She tried not to feel hurt as she felt his weight leave the bed, told herself that she’d asked for it, but then the lights flicked off and he was back, crawling once more beneath the covers. He didn’t protest when Bulma snuggled against his side, curling herself around him to steal his warmth.

When she woke up in the morning he was gone, but she wasn’t upset. From his last visit, she knew that the Saiyans were always up and training way before anyone else on board had even thought about cracking an eyelid. Bulma yawned and rolled over, stretching to feel the pleasant ache of well-used muscles. So much for blue-balling him, she thought with a sleepy smile as she snuggled back into her pillow. Putting off the day for another hour or two wouldn’t hurt, and she was exhausted!

*

Gohan was pleased to see that his father had woken early too, and made his way to the training room where the other saiyans were already up and stretching out. “Hey, little brother!” Radditz called out, waving the other man over to join them. Vegeta and Nappa, always the early birds, usually did their own thing. Gohan and Radditz were not much of a match for either of the elite ranked saiyans anyway.

“Morning dad!” Gohan grinned encouragingly at his father, who was looking even more dishevelled than usual. “How’d you sleep?” Radditz uttered a surprised grunt and elbowed Gohan in the ribs. He shook his head at his nephew, a wide eyed look of censorship on his face.

“Not great.” Goku admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head with one hand. He was embarrassed, an unusual sensation for him, that his brother and the other saiyans had seen Chichi run out on him the night before. Gohan, Bulma, Krillin, all his earth friends had seen Chichi commit any number of indignities to his person; he wasn’t so much bothered by their presence. The saiyans, however, were a different story. Vegeta hadn’t seemed to care one way or the other, but Radditz and Nappa had really seemed thrown by her rejection of him. They’d seemed genuinely bothered that his wife should turn her back on him, though he wasn’t sure why. Radditz, he could kind of understand, but Nappa didn’t seem like the most caring fellow, and Goku couldn’t reason why his marital state would be so important to the bald man.

Truthfully, Goku knew that none of the other spats that he and Chichi engaged in were like this one. It was different, serious, and he felt genuinely worried that his wife might not be his for much longer.

“Don’t worry, dad,” Gohan drew one arm across his little chest, bracing it with the other to stretch his shoulder, “things will work out.”

Goku grimaced. Gohan’s canned enthusiasm wasn’t convincing. Even an eight year old knew he was doomed. “You should bring her a gift.” Radditz put in. “Bring her your next kill.”

“Ummm…” Goku stalled. “Uh, thanks for the advice.” He quickly turned and began his own stretching routine, hoping that his brother and son would just leave the issue alone. He didn’t think that Chichi would appreciate a dead body, even if he had it in him to go out and kill something at this point, and besides, he’d already given her something. Well, slipped something under her door was more like it. And, he reflected, it wasn’t really even a good something. Seized by inspiration in the middle of the night, he’d drawn a crappy picture of a flower with supplies filched from Krillin’s desk, and before he could convince himself it was a stupid idea, he’d written “ _because I can’t pick you a real one_ ” at the bottom and shoved it under her door.

At the time, he’d thought himself terribly romantic and clever, but in the light of day with only a few hours’ worth of disturbed sleep, he was convinced it was the worst idea he’d ever had. Really, he was a terrible drawer, and sketched out in the dark across his knees, the thing had looked worse than Gohan’s childhood finger-paintings; the ones Chichi used to stick proudly on the fridge, all the while proclaiming how their son was so smart, so talented. It hadn’t come from his father, came Goku’s self-depreciating thoughts. If he was smart, he’d not have said what he did to Chichi. Hell, he’d not have ever been separated from her in the first place and then he wouldn’t be in this mess. He’d have woken up, snuggled next to his wife, his hand on her breast, soft bum pressed tightly against his groin…

“Wake up, Kakarott.” Radditz’s voice cut into his reverie. “You here to train, or what? ‘S a good distraction, you know. From what’s bothering you.” He grinned, crooking his finger at Goku to join them. Gohan gave his uncle a look, as though to say ‘ _who should be censoring themselves, now?_ ’ but followed him to the mat anyway.

“Take your time, dad.” He said, kindly. “We’ll be here when you’re ready.” Goku nodded and watched as his two relations quickly dropped down into fighting stances. They went at each other without much preamble and Goku was impressed, as always, by his son’s strength and skill. He’d been nowhere near that powerful as a boy of Gohan’s age, and he couldn’t remember his son ever having shown much promise before Earth’s destruction. The child had been naturally much more powerful than his peers, of course, but he’d not shown much desire to fight, which the saiyans had brought out in full force. Goku wondered if it was in him all along. He worried that maybe by listening to Chichi and not training his son, perhaps he’d handicapped him, made the last three years much worse than they had any need to be.

Then again, he reflected, perhaps if Gohan had been stronger, he’d have been pressed into service much earlier, under someone much, much worse than Vegeta. Goku didn’t know whether to be angry or thankful.

*

*

Guru looked up in surprise as Nail entered the room. It wasn’t so much his presence, but the look on his face, or perhaps the way he walked…Guru squinted in the dim light as Nail bowed and took a seat before him. Dende looked shocked as he scooted sideways to allow the larger Namek some room.

“My Son, what brings you to my chamber today?” He asked, reaching for his gourd of water to clear his throat. He’d been meditating for quite some time and his mouth felt dry and gummy. He gestured for Dende to do the same but the child remained in place, the barest beginnings of a frown on his small face.

“I feel…” Nail hesitated, looking away as he thought. “I feel as though I must apologize, Master, for the way I have been, lately. I have been most impatient and unwilling to do as you instruct. I regret any awkwardness between us, as a result.”

“Nail, that is good news.” Guru smiled widely.

“I still feel much frustration that you refuse to entrust me with your secrets, but I will try to take this as a lesson in patience. You will tell me when you are ready to do so.”

Guru’s smile lessened at Nail’s words, beginning at a broad grin and ending with a bittersweet twist of ancient lips. “Nail,” he said gently, “I have already told you that this is not a matter of patience. Many of the secrets that I know are not mine to share.” Wisely, Nail said nothing, though Guru could see the compression of his lips, pressed together so tightly that they’d gone pale. “It’s not as though you’ve anything to worry about for the time being.” The old sage joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Vengeance is with Blue right now, and the last time that happened, we heard nothing of him for weeks.” He smiled at Dende, who was happily recalling the woman he liked so much.

“She is good for his spirit. When he speaks from her home, he does not carry so much anger.” Dende said to Nail, as though the knowledge would act as a balm for his irritation. “Perhaps if he stays there long enough, even you will begin to trust him.” The boy smiled and Nail did his best not to snarl back a retort. Instead, he got quickly up from the floor, bowed to the puzzled old master and strode out of the domed house without another word.

Silently fuming, Nail stomped across the yard, his open vest billowing behind him as he moved. How was it that a child was privy to more information about Vengeance than he, Guru’s most trusted servant? It galled him, stuck in the back of his throat like a lodged bone, awakened the fury he was trying so very hard to hide. Could it be that they were more perceptive than they let on? The old man certainly was stubborn, but a little blinded by his beliefs. The kid, though…Nail wasn’t too sure about him. There was a wary intelligence in the brat’s eyes that set Nail on edge.

After he’d crossed the transport path, Nail judged himself a safe distance from the small compound. He powered up and launched himself into the air, flying at top speed to a secluded little lake where he’d be free to train in peace. He could let loose and power up without worrying about anyone else bothering him or getting in his way. The trip took only moments, though he was slower than he would have liked, and when he touched down the first thing he did was to throw off the vest and the odd, puffy collar that was the fashion of the Namek race. He stood at the water’s edge, bare chested, fisted hands on his hips, and stared down at his reflection. Not bad, all in all, though he resented the drop in strength that had come with the change. And, one hand came up to tug at one of the small green antennae sprouting from his head, he really missed the horns he’d had with his last body. Nothing was more intimidating than a good pair of horns. It was too bad he’d had to kill his last form after he’d taken this new one. It might have been nice to go back to, but he didn’t want the real Nail coming back and causing problems for him. That could be bad, especially since he’d taken such care in studying the man, learning his mannerisms and speech patters, even going so far as to spy on the compound to see how the Nameks interacted with each other. It hadn’t been an easy mission for a man used to parading his strength and skill in the most garish ways, but he’d done it. His skill at choreography weren’t the only reason he’d risen so high in Frieza’s ranks; when it came down to it, Ginyu was one hell of an asset.

Scowling, Ginyu performed a few of his favourite gymnastic sequences to try and put himself at ease, without much success. Despite all the time he had spent in Nail’s body, it still felt a little awkward to him, as though he were wearing a costume rather than inhabiting a real flesh and blood form. Perhaps with more training, he would be able to master this gangly green sack of meat. He wasn’t really used to covert operations like this one and was usually lucky enough to be able to break in a new body with the aid of his elite squad of warriors. As it was, he’d had to become accustomed to this body alone and in secret before he dared to return to Guru’s little compound with it. His awkwardness certainly would have been noticed otherwise. He’d gotten a bit more practice with the body, seeing as the Namekian warriors trained daily, but the few that had escaped to the compound with Guru were pitifully weak and hardly worth sparring at all. If he hadn’t a charade to keep up, he’d have killed them all the first day out.

Ginyu cast a calculating eye over the secluded little spot, once more examining his features in the reflection of the lake. Not too bad, he supposed, but he couldn’t live in this asexual body forever. With a careful bit of planning, however, he knew he could soon have this unpleasant business with Vengeance and this cursed body wrapped up for good.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: This is later than intended...as usual...haha. Thanks for your patience and for all the kind reviews left on chapter 25.

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PRESENT DAY

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                “What do you mean, you want me to attack Guru’s compound?” Frieza asked, petulantly frowning at the wine in his glass. “Isn’t he that old fool who feeds and medicates my slaves so I don’t have to?”

                “It’s not me who’s suggesting it, my Lord.” Zarbon reminded the irritable tyrant as he handed the crumpled sheet containing Ginyu’s correspondence. “Ginyu is insistent that Vengeance is currently holed up with some other resistance member who goes by the name ‘Blue.’ She is believed to have been involved in the factory debacle.” Zarbon winced, fearful at the reaction that such a reminder might evoke, but the master was surprisingly focused today.

                “What does that have to do at all with Guru?” Frieza demanded, tossing the paper aside as he usually did, hardly even bothering to look at the printed words. He set the wineglass down on the arm of the hovering seat and steepled his fingers, staring Zarbon down over their pointed tips.

                “Ginyu feels that if Guru were to be threatened, to be chased from his home, the first place he would go is this _Red Station_ , where Blue resides.” Zarbon explained patiently, even though his nerves were shot right to hell. He’d really underestimated that flamboyant idiot and was worried that he might be paying for it very soon. Ginyu’s scheme was unusually clever, and with the worst timing. Vengeance had never before been known to let slip his whereabouts.

                “And let me guess, he’s too incompetent to find out the coordinates himself, so I’m going to have to go and ruin an operation that’s been saving me billions in credit?” Frieza rolled his eyes. “Idiots! The lot of you!” He knocked the wineglass from the arm of his chair with an angry swipe of his hand and it crashed to the floor, spraying Zarbon’s immaculate boots with dribbles of red. The green man wisely remained silent, simply stepping backward and away from the worst of the puddle; to complain either about his boots or to insist upon his innocence would just rouse the master’s ire. A quick flick of Zarbon’s wrist brought a nervous servant from the sidelines to mop up the mess.

                “With respect, sire,” Zarbon said, though he tried not to sound too convincing, “finding Vengeance will save you billions in factory repairs, staff training, and research.” It was not a good idea to out Vengeance, but Zarbon had to think of his own safety, his own wellbeing. This was the kind of suggestion that Frieza counted on him to make, and the minute he stopped coming up with such ideas, his position as Frieza’s favourite was no longer secure.

                “Ugh, pragmatic to the end, aren’t you Zarbon?” Frieza flicked his wrist at his subordinate, scowling in distaste. “Go now, leave me. I must have time to mull this over. But have someone send me some fresh wine, _good_ wine, on your way out.”

                “Of course, your Highness.” Zarbon bowed respectfully and took his leave, calmly pausing at the comm-unit and contacting the kitchens as he’d been instructed. From there, he strode round the ship in a quick tour of all the departments he had a hand in, just to check up on things and make sure everything was running smoothly. It was only when he finally reached his own quarters that he allowed some of his inner panic to bubble up to the surface. If Ginyu’s plan worked and Frieza found Vengeance, shit would hit the fan and the strongest revolutionary that the resistance had ever seen would be cooked, completely and totally. There had never been anyone who’d come so close to Frieza’s operations, who’d managed to cause so much damage to the empire, and Zarbon dreaded the idea that he might finally have been caught. When Frieza wanted someone dead, there usually wasn’t much choice but to comply. The fact that the universe’s mystery hero had remained unscathed for so long was in itself a testament to his obvious cunning and intelligence and if they took him out, how many years until one like him would rise again?

                “ _I could warn him.”_ Zarbon thought, with sudden clarity. This was why he’d stayed by Frieza so long, so that he could play this part! But he quickly realized that he had no idea how to contact the elusive Vengeance. Aside from his closest allies, nobody really did. Everybody else just spread the word in hopes that it would reach him, and Zarbon feared that doing so would alert Frieza’s spies. He couldn’t take that chance, seeing as only a handful of people knew about Ginyu’s plan in the first place and he wasn’t about to put his own ass on the line. He had nightmares sometimes about what would happen if Frieza ever learned of his duplicity.

                “Shit.” Zarbon cursed, throwing himself into a chair in frustration. His fingers sought out the tip of his long braid and he pulled the ribbon from it as he reached for a brush with his other hand. Zarbon had at least twenty hairbrushes, all scattered in strategic places around his quarters so that there would never be one far from reach. In a basket on his living area table, under the kitchenette sink, hanging on a hook by his front door, at least three different types of brush sat neatly lined on the vanity table in his bedroom; the list went on. Vegeta trained relentlessly, Ginyu choreographed endless ridiculous gymnastic routines for his squad; everyone had a release and for Zarbon that was brushing his hair, his small escape from the world around him.

                Outwardly calm, Zarbon ran his hands down the smooth braid, slowly unwinding the heavy strands before running the brush through them, stroke after stroke, until his arms ached and his glorious mane gleamed like spun silk. Breathing deeply, he gathered his hair at the nape of his neck and slowly plaited it, his fingers moving deftly with no need of a mirror, though he’d certainly make sure to look at himself before leaving the apartment again, in case of missed strands or bumps in the hair along his scalp.

                “Okay,” he breathed, tying the freshly redone braid off again with his favourite pink ribbon, “I will figure this out. I will do something about this.”

                But what?

*

*

                Radditz awoke from an unintended nap, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs from having stretched out on the too-small couch. There were pins and needles in his feet, which had been left to dangle over the armrest so that the rest of his body would have a fighting chance at fitting. “Ugh, what time is it?” He wondered aloud, though there was no one in the room to answer him. Someone had turned off the television, obviously having caught him sawing logs, and he wondered how long he’d been asleep. It wasn’t his fault, really. The blonde woman, Bulma’s mother- what was her name?- had been watching some trashy soap or another and Radditz was left with nothing better to do than sit down and watch with her, seeing as everyone else was occupied with something else. She’d kindly filled him in on the exploits of the show’s characters and he’d nodded politely and pretended to listen, but only because she was such a good cook and always so intent on feeding him that he felt a small spark of affection for her, even if she had tried to pinch his butt a time or two. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded, but he had Puar to think about…if only he could ever find the stubborn bugger.

                Grumbling to clear his throat of sleep-induced phlegminess, Radditz made to sit up and was suddenly surprised by the sight of something blue and furry curled up on his stomach, fast asleep. His first instinct was to throw the cat off, or maybe snap its neck and enjoy a little snack, but something about its fuzzy little face and the soft purr rumbling out from its throat stayed his hand. He thought the thing was cute, dare he admit it. “Hello there.” He said, laying back against the cushions and reaching out a tentative finger to scratch the thing behind one ear as he had seen Bulma do to the little black kitty that hung off her father’s shoulder. The cat stiffened and opened its wary eyes, looking surprised at having been caught. Radditz felt its legs tense against his stomach, claws flexing against the fabric of his shirt as though gaining purchase to launch itself away and take flight. “Don’t go,” he whispered, tentatively moving his finger to scratch its little chin. It shifted again and a familiar wave of scent hit his nostrils, one which Radditz had been doing his best to ignore. EVERYTHING seemed to smell like Puar, so why get his hopes up every time?

                Gradually, Radditz felt the little fuzzball begin to relax and he actually smiled as it began to purr in earnest, rubbing its head against his hand every time he stopped petting it. He felt the fragile bones of its skull beneath his fingers, knew that he could crush its brain with no effort whatsoever, and was surprised to find himself revolted at the thought of killing the friendly little creature.

                “You remind me of someone.” Radditz said, and for a crazy second he could have sworn that a panicked look crossed the cat’s serene little face. “You’re the same colour as my…” he paused, feeling stupid, “as someone I know. Someone I miss.” He added in a whisper. He closed his eyes, fingers tingling as he ran one hand over the cat’s little head and down its back, the texture of the fur feeling exactly as the thin strip of hair down Puar’s spine had. His eyebrows knitted together and he scowled, opening his eyes to glare at the ceiling as visions of his one-night lover danced in his head. “He was…” Radditz began, and heaved a great sigh, “I just want,” he tried again to vocalize his thoughts, finding a little comfort in saying the words aloud, even though it was just to an animal. The hand that wasn’t busy petting squeezed into a fist and he tried to keep that tension from spreading to his body, lest he alarm the little friend he’d made and send it scurrying.

                It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Vegeta at least found himself stuck to a woman that he saw on a semi-regular basis, why did he have to go and attach himself to a one night stand that he had next to no hope of ever finding again in his whole life? They’d exchanged a lot of messages, but every time he hinted at another physical meeting, Puar always seemed to shy away, his replies coming later than usual and full of excuses. Thinking on them, Radditz fought down panicky thoughts that perhaps their night together hadn’t made the same impression on the other man, or perhaps that he was already attached somewhere and while he didn’t mind a few naughty emails, he really had no interest in meeting up again. Radditz didn’t know what he’d do if that was the case. Kill himself, maybe?

                “Oh Raaadiiitz!” A voice bubbled from the direction of the kitchens. The cat tensed and bolted from its perch before he could convince it to stay. “Diiiiner!” It was Mrs. Briefs, he could hear her shoes tapping against the floor as she came in search. “Oh, there you are dear. Finally awake, I see! Anyway, come on, dinner is getting cold and you don’t want those other boys to eat it all before you get a chance to fill your tummy, do you?” She smiled at him, wooden spoon waving in one hand as she spoke, splattering sauce on the floor and the walls nearby. She didn’t appear to notice the mess she was making and Radditz wasn’t about to mention it, lest it delay her serving of his dinner. Suddenly catching a whiff of roasted meat and savoury spices, he realized he was starving.  Oh well, now that the cat was gone, nothing was keeping him on the couch. Mrs. Briefs waited while he hauled himself up and straightened his clothes. He paused at the entrance to the hallway, gallantly gesturing for her to go first. She had fingers like a vice grip, did that woman, and he didn’t want saucy evidence of her appreciation for a nice looking man all over his backside.

                Radditz entered the kitchen and snagged a spot at the saiyan end of the table, where all his squadmates were clustered together. He noticed that Vegeta had taken the spot closest to the platter of roast and grinned to himself at his commander’s ingenuity. Vegeta was always thinking, always on the ball, and few details escaped his notice. Radditz was a bit surprised to see that Bulma wasn’t sitting next to him, but rather a few seats down, though he spared little thought for it once the mingled scents of dinner hit his nostrils.

                “Glad you could finally join us.” Nappa sneered, reaching out to spear a slab of meat with his fork. Radditz shrugged and grabbed his own fork, about to load up his plate when it was suddenly whisked away by Mrs. Briefs, only to be plunked back down a moment later, heaping with a generous sample of everything on the table.

                “There you go, dear.” She beamed around the table as Radditz tucked into his meal, pleased to see her cooking so enjoyed. Why, Nappa and Vegeta were already on their third helpings! “Goku dear, is something wrong?” She asked, watching her daughter’s friend glumly shove the food around his plate with his fork. It was only his second plate and she’d never known him to leave scraps behind. “Can I fix you something else?”

                “Ahh, no thank you.” Goku looked up sheepishly, scratching the back of his head in that way he always did when he was embarrassed or confused. “It’s great. Everything’s delicious!” He shovelled a forkful of meat and gravy into his wide open mouth, chewing enthusiastically. “Awesome!” He gave Bulma’s mom a big thumbs up. A few seats down, Chichi grimaced. She hadn’t known what to do or say, so she’d been avoiding him all day and really wished that she’d had some excuse to not show up at the table. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him, it was moreso that she didn’t know what to say to him, and especially didn’t want to end up making a scene in front of everyone. She’d cried a little bit, oddly touched by the drawing she’d found under her door that morning. Artistically, it was awful, but the gesture was obviously heartfelt.

                And yet at the same time, it reminded her of all the missed birthdays, the forgotten anniversaries, the way thoughts of her always seemed to just slip his mind. If she took him back, was she dooming herself to a life of being second best to every whim that passed his mind? Chichi wasn’t prepared to live like that again; she refused to be an afterthought while she spent all her time and energy devoted to his care.

                From his spot between Radditz and Goku, Gohan watched his parents avoid each other’s gaze. He wasn’t sure what had been said last night, but he knew that his father had bunked up with Krillin and that his mother had fled alone to her room looking more furious than he could recall ever having seen her, and that was saying quite a bit. His mother’s anger was usually like a force of nature, destructive and all consuming, but there hadn’t been a single smashed vase or plate, no holes in the wall from her raging fists, no screaming or yelling. She’d been deadly silent and that had been the most frightening part of all.

                Gohan looked down to the end of the table where Sixteen was sitting quietly, eating his dinner. He hadn’t said anything all through the meal, though Gohan knew from his last visit that the giant rarely spoke unless he had something important to say. He frowned, watching the android lift a piece of meat to his mouth, the fork looking so tiny in his humongous hand. Why had the big man even bothered to show up to dinner? Surely there were other ways to refuel his power cells! Why did he have to be here, making things all awkward?

                An elbow in his side startled him from his thoughts. Gohan looked up to see Radditz looking quizzically down at him. “Eat.” His uncle said simply, and Gohan complied, picking up his fork and shovelling food into his mouth in imitation of his father’s kin. He wished he could talk to someone about his parents, but he didn’t think any of the saiyans would understand the problem. Romantic entanglements weren’t their thing, but he didn’t know that he felt comfortable going to anyone else.

                “Why Gohan, I had no idea you were so hungry!” Mrs. Briefs reached over to fill his plate again. “Why, you’ve polished off a whole helping already. There you go, eat up!” She chirped, encouragingly. Beside him, Radditz snickered. A moment later, a second serving landed on his plate too, but unlike Gohan, he was pleased to see it there. Radditz grinned up at Mrs. Briefs as she moved on, dumping twice the load on Vegeta’s plate. “And for my future son in law, can’t have you starving!” She tittered, oblivious of the stricken look that passed over Vegeta’s features.

                Future son in law? Vegeta stiffened. What did that mean? Had Nappa been telling tales again?

                “Mo-om!” Bulma moaned from her place beside Chichi, blushing bright red. “It’s not like that!” She protested, and Vegeta grunted, sounding irritated.

                Not like that? The prince frowned. What did she mean by that? Wait a minute, wasn’t that what he’d been thinking only seconds before?

                Goku looked up in surprise, watching as an awkward look passed between his old friend and the ruthless man who called himself Prince of the Saiyans. Were they…together? Why hadn’t anyone told him? Goku looked around the table, wondering what other crazy things had happened during his imprisonment. Everyone else’s lives had gone on without him, he saw with sudden despair, and they’d have continued in this vein even if he’d never been discovered and rescued from the camp. Despondently, Goku looked over at Vegeta, wondering if it was a bad thing that he’d been rescued. Perhaps Vegeta and the others should have just left him there to die…

                “Goku,” Chichi’s voice was soft as she pushed her chair back from the table, “come find me when you’re finished dinner. I think you and I need to talk.” She stacked her utensils on her plate and picked it up along with her glass without looking at him, but something in her voice filled Goku’s veins with hope, made him realize that it wasn’t over yet. His surprised eyes followed her as she brought her dirty dishes over to the counter, neatly stacking them for someone else to take care of. He sat, stunned, as she left the room, his desire to eat suddenly nonexistent.

                “What are you waiting for?” Bulma hissed, kicking his leg under the table. She jerked her head in the direction that Chichi had gone and waggled her eyebrows intently. “Go, you dummy!”

                “Oh…okay!” Goku shoved his chair back, nearly tipping it over backwards in his haste. He pulled his dishes together with a clatter, slapping his plate on the counter, wincing as his fork went flying to land on the floor. He stooped to pick it up and tossed it on the counter, then slammed down his glass so hard it cracked up the side. Of course, being Goku, he didn’t notice it at all.

                Sixteen sat rigidly in his chair, watching as Goku ran off after Chichi. His eyebrows drew together in concentration as he tried to understand the strange fizzing sensation that was running through his circuits. Was this jealousy? Anger? Fear? He looked up and saw that Gohan was staring at him, an intent and thoughtful look on the little boy’s face. Wordlessly, Sixteen looked back down to his plate and concentrated on the fuel before him. He had not been ingesting much energy rich organic matter as of late, and had twice been forced to hook himself up to Gero’s alternate power supplies for an extra boost between meals. He tried to ignore the sudden silence and the surreptitious glances that were being cast his way. So they all knew, then, that something was going on. A fine situation, that, when he didn’t even know himself. Resolutely, Sixteen lifted a forkful of meat to his mouth.

                Most surprisingly, it was Nappa who broke the silence. “He’s bonded to her, machine man.” The biggest saiyan said between bites, in his usual gruff way. “And whatever she thinks about it, even if she chooses you, he’ll kill you for it or die trying. Won’t be able to help himself.”

                “Nonsense.” Bulma piped up, though her eyes darted uneasily to Vegeta, who continued to shovel food into his mouth as though the conversation wasn’t happening. “Goku would never kill someone.”

                “Want to bet?” Gohan piped up in response, though his gaze was directed solely at Sixteen, whose eyes remained stubbornly on his plate. Bulma felt a chill go down her spine at the raw aggression in his tone. The boy turned to meet her eyes. “Ask Mr. Piccolo.”

                “What’s bonded?” Mrs. Briefs piped up, her hands clasped together over her bosom, a starry look in her eyes as though nobody was talking about their friend Goku’s part in the potential murder of Sixteen.

                “It’s bullshit.” Vegeta said darkly, hardly even bothering to look up from his dinner. The other saiyans clamped their mouths shut, but Bulma caught Nappa watching Vegeta before his eyes fell on her. The bald saiyan looked quickly away when he met her gaze as though unwilling to give away a grave secret.

*

                Chichi was quite literally shocked when she heard the knock on her bedroom door, knowing in an instant that Goku would be standing on the other side when she finally worked up the courage to go and open it. She’d not expected him to come so soon, especially considering that he hadn’t even made it through two full servings of dinner when she’d left the room. Nervously, Chichi straightened her dress, running her hands down over her stomach and thighs to straighten imaginary wrinkles, before crossing the room to open the door. As expected, Goku stood in the doorway looking more anxious and nervous than she’d ever seen him. Here was a man who sailed through life, and he was practically trembling before her.

                “That was quick.” She said softly, and Goku scratched his head.

                “I…um…wasn’t hungry.” He replied, noticing the odd, almost concerned look she gave him before stepping aside to allow him entrance.

                “Well, come in.” She said, awkwardly, and he followed her over to a small table in the corner of her room, where two chairs stood waiting to be occupied. Goku glanced around as he sat down, idly noting that Chichi’s quarters were bigger than Krillin’s tiny cell, with enough space that she had the place neatly divided into a bedroom and the small seating area that they currently occupied. He caught sight of her bed, neatly made in the far corner, and he suddenly realized that he was well and truly alone with his wife for the first time in three long years. His mouth went a little dry, wondering what she’d do if he suddenly tossed her onto the bed and pinned her there.

                “So…” Chichi cleared her throat, seating herself in the chair opposite Goku’s.

                “So.” He repeated, tearing his attention from the bed in order to look at the woman he called his wife, she who’d filled his thoughts for so long. The stupid picture that he’d drawn was sitting atop a low bookshelf just a few feet away and he blushed a little to see it there in the light of day, looking so pathetic, so childish. 

                “I’ve decided to give you another chance.” Chichi said, succinctly. She never was one to beat around the bush. “Mind you, things are going to be different this time, or you can kiss me goodbye right now.” She continued fiercely as Goku stared at her, hope building in his chest. “I am not your servant or your property, and I won’t be treated as such. From this point on, I am demanding the respect that you never gave me on Earth. I deserve it, Goku, and I won’t settle for anything less. Gohan and I come first.” She stated, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

                “And Sixteen?” Goku asked, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

                “My relationship with Sixteen is my business.” Chichi frowned at Goku across the table. “He has been a good friend to me these past years and I wish to continue that friendship, if he is still willing.” Chichi paused, a sad little frown passing over her features as she thought of the pain she was causing the gentle android and the possibility that he would no longer want anything to do with her, now that Goku was back in the picture. “You’re just going to have to accept that. I won’t see you treat him poorly.” She looked Goku in the eyes, watched as he appeared to struggle, his entire body rigid and tense. “Goku,” she said, “you have nothing to worry about from him. He is my friend and I love him, but you are my husband, the one I love the most.” She swiped at teary eyes. “The only person who could destroy that feeling is you, Goku, if you continue to take me for granted.”

                “Chi…” Goku whispered, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Chi, I never meant…” he faltered, thinking suddenly of all the times he’d ignored her, left her alone, forgot about her. “It’ll be different.” He promised, stroking the palm of her hand with his thumb, aching to reach out and hold her, but not sure if she’d let him.

                “Well,” she sniffled, pulling her hand away and standing up abruptly from her chair, “okay. That’s settled then.” She grabbed a tissue from a box on her shelf. “You may move your things out of Krillin’s room then.”

                “Done.” Goku shrugged, standing up and stepping closer. “I haven’t got anything to move. Chi, these aren’t even my clothes.” He gestured to the slightly baggy shirt and pants he wore, again borrowed from Radditz who was closest to his size amongst the saiyan troupe.

                “Oh…well.” Chichi faltered, no longer sure how to act or behave. “We’ll have to do something about that, I suppose.” She put out a hesitant hand to tug at the fabric of Goku’s shirt. “This is much too big for you. Perhaps Tien has something that might fit better.” She said absently, studying his frame, so much skinnier than she remembered.

                “Tien?” Goku asked in surprise. “I thought he wasn’t coming to the launch! And I haven’t seen him yet.”

                “Tien is…odd around the saiyans. We hardly see him when they show up. And he didn’t come; he was captured...like you. We found him several months back in a slaver camp and I don’t think he’s really all there Goku. Something in him seems a little broken. I think that the saiyans might remind him of his captors, being of Frieza’s army and all.” She grimaced, seeing the stark look that crossed Goku’s face.

                “I know what he feels like, in that case.” He said softly, and Chichi had the feeling that some part of him was with her no longer, momentarily gone away to some other place. “To be honest, they make me kind of uncomfortable too.” Goku scratched the back of his head, “Though maybe…” he paused, “maybe that’s because I’m supposed to be one of them.”

                “Don’t say things like that out loud.” Chichi smiled wryly. “I’m trying very, very hard to see that being ‘one of them’ is not such a bad thing.” She tugged again at the too-big shirt. “For Gohan’s sake.”

                Inwardly, Goku breathed a sigh of relief. Ever since the black rage had come over him the previous day, he’d been feeling more and more like he was less human than he realized, and he was trying very hard not to be bothered by that.

*

*

                Dende screamed as the first of Frieza’s soldiers burst into the little dome of a house, pink cape fluttering behind his shoulders. “Hurry!” Zarbon hissed at the surprised child. “Get your old sage and get to your ship! I will hold off the others but I cannot delay them for long without suspicion.” He reached out and shoved the little namekian in the direction of the central room, but Dende stumbled, his legs frozen in place, and fell to his knees. Outside his brother nameks were being slaughtered, their last little refuge finally found out and attacked.

                “Dende!” Nail skidded to a stop as he came charging down the hallway, warily eyeing the soldier who was pulling the child to his feet.

                “Take him to your ship and go!” Zarbon hissed again, pushing Dende in Nail’s direction. He locked eyes with the adult Namek and saw wary recognition there before the green man grabbed his charge and fled. Zarbon felt his stomach drop as he watched the two run, completely unable to do something about it without outing his own traitorous tendencies. The older Namek was Ginyu, he was absolutely sure of it. Something in the man’s eyes, the flash of recognition without confusion, had made him certain of it. Given the plan though, at least Ginyu would have no reason to be suspicious of Zarbon’s motives.

                “Zarbon, sir!” One of his subordinates was crashing through the door.

                “Through here.” He waved them forward; it had to at least look real if they were going to scare Guru enough to make him run for it. “Be on your guard, the nameks are fierce fighters, for all their claims to pacifism.” No sooner than he had stepped forward, the ground began to rumble beneath his feet, the tiles of the odd namek dome cracking and forcing upward as a massive ship began its ascent to the sky. “Shit!” Zarbon jumped back as the ship blasted up with a burst of power, the flame from its propulsion system scorching his subordinates who had not been so quick to move. Zarbon grimaced and moved further back so that the smoke from their burning corpses would not settle in his clothes and hair. A few moments later, he left the small house and gave orders for the ships to pursue the vessel. In a few hours or days, he would order the ships to drop back, allowing the green men to think they had eluded capture, after which they would hopefully fly straight to Blue, with Ginyu’s tracking device leading them right to Vengeance.

                Inside the ship, Ginyu could barely keep his glee to himself. Luckily for him, to the other nameks on board it simply looked as though he was exhilarated by their escape.

                “Their will be time for celebration later,” one of the elder escapees laid a hand on Ginyu’s shoulder. “For now we must mourn our fallen brothers.”

                “Of course,” Ginyu nodded, managing to look suitably chastened. The small ship held only about ten nameks, including himself, but it felt completely packed and had he not needed to keep up his charade for just a little bit longer, Ginyu would have taken great pleasure in tearing every single one of them to pieces.

                “Guru, have you finished with the safety measures?” Another escapee was bent over the old sage’s shoulder, examining the controls. The ship was ancient, probably as old as Guru himself, and most of those present had no idea how to pilot the strange, four legged craft. Ginyu knew that Nail was supposed to have known, and he really hoped that nothing happened to the old geezer because he’d had a look at the pilot’s panel himself, it was a complete jumble to him. In inheriting Nail’s body, he had not been left with the other’s memory or knowledge, and he’d been doing a damn good job so far of not letting on that he could neither read nor speak the Namekian tongue. It was very lucky for him that, like so many races that had been so displaced, they spoke mostly in standard. The way their culture was, relying on their long lived elders as they did, they had little use for books or recordings before their planet’s destruction, so he’d not come into contact with their written word more than a few times since stealing this body.

                “Yes, all external devices should now be deactivated.” Guru sounded pleased as he slumped backward in his chair. “And I have activated the electromagnetic shield that will prevent all outward communications. Even if one of their men managed to toss a device inside these walls during our escape, it will be rendered completely useless until I input the command to turn the shields off. Once we are out of their sight, we will be well and truly away.” Guru smiled around the room and this time Ginyu did not have to fake the crestfallen look on his face.

*

*

                Zarbon felt a sense of profound relief as he gave the orders to fall back and allow Guru’s little ship to escape, and yet beneath it all he was still clutched in the grip of unease. He was alone in his quarters, anxiously waiting for his comm-link to boot up and connect to one of his secret accounts. He’d selected a trusty acquaintance, a man he’d never met in person, but who could be counted upon to do the job. “Urgent message to be passed on to Vengeance at whatever cost.” He spoke urgently into the microphone, too unsettled to remember to disguise his voice. “Beware the Namekian refugees. Ginyu hides among them.” He sighed and sent the recording, wishing that he was able to give his contacts more information. He did not know the name of the Namekian that Ginyu was impersonating, nor had the man had any particular feature to distinguish him from the other adults on board, for there were surely more than the child and the old, fat sage. They all looked the same to him anyway.

                Zarbon turned off the comm.-link and sat for a moment, staring at the still, blank screen. He could feel the tension in his body, every muscle strung tight on the framework of his bones. He’d never been so wired, he was sure. He was playing a dangerous game, gambling with more than his own life, and while it was a thrill it was also a tremendously reckless thing to do.

                Zarbon’s hands were trembling as he reached for his nearest hairbrush.

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Thanks for reading, folks. Please consider leaving a review; I’d love to know what you thought. :)


	27. Chapter 27

 

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  Sorry for the wait. This one’s a tad longer than usual, so I hope that helps. At this point in time, I’m not so sure if I’ll be able to continue updating as quickly as I have in the past, though I’ll try my best to update as often as possible. Thanks for your patience, and now on to the good stuff!

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PRESENT DAY

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                “I’m so sorry, Sixteen.” Chichi said softly, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor so she didn’t have to look at the big man sitting beside her. “What I feel for you…what we have…is special. But Goku is my husband, the father of my son, and I have to give that a chance.” She wiped tears from her eyes with the sodden tissue she clutched in her hand. “I want you to know that this wasn’t an easy decision, and that you will always have a place in my heart.”

                “I understand.” Sixteen said softly, his big hand tentatively grasping her own. He never failed to marvel at her delicate construction, her tiny, slender fingers dwarfed by his palm. “I cannot offer you what he can; of this I am well aware.” He said, feeling an odd tightness in his throat. Was this despair? Heartbreak, as the humans called it? He thought it might be so. “Will you still be my friend?” He asked, hopefully, “Or is this not permitted?”

                “Of course we can still be friends.” Chichi bawled, turning in her seat and hugging the stiff android emphatically. “Nothing would make me happier Sixteen. Nothing.” As quickly as she had grasped him, she was releasing him and scooting back into her own spot on the bench, again wiping her eyes as tears continued to pour. Sixteen noted that she did not sit as close to him as she once would have.

                “Chichi, before he came here you used to speak to me much of your husband. He is here now, your wishes have come true. You should not cry.” Sixteen reached for another tissue from the box on the table and handed it to her. She sniffled and bawled harder, leaning into him as she might have done before Goku’s reappearance, and Sixteen felt the heaviness in his mind dissipate just a little. He put his arm around her shoulders as she cried into her tissue, and Chichi did not protest or shy away. They would be good friends again, he knew it.

                When Chichi had finally composed herself and left his quarters, Sixteen ambled slowly over into his father’s lab to check on the tanks. He smiled sadly at the two figures inside, their naked bodies nearly complete, and checked the charts that hung on the wall between them. Seventeen and Eighteen were almost ready for activation; soon he would have a new brother and sister to help fill the odd, empty sensation that he`d felt since Goku`s arrival. He wandered over to the wall of spare parts, lifting a finger to stroke a pale white hand. Nineteen, built in the same vein as Sixteen himself, had been taken apart even before his activation could take place. Something in the brain circuitry was faulty and Gero had feared that the android might be uncontrollable, wild. Impossible to fix, Gero had said, though Sixteen suspected that Dr. Gero was simply far too enamoured of his organic children to be bothered with mucking about in Nineteen’s brain, a thought which disturbed him deeply. Sixteen sometimes wondered if he would soon be overshadowed too, but he was content in the fact that he had other friends, should his father lose all interest. He would still have Chichi and Bulma and Krillin to be his family, Puar too, and dear Mr. and Mrs. Briefs. They had all shown him a kindness and warmth that he had not known existed in humanity, thanks to the cold and calculating personality of the father who’d created him.

*

*

                Bulma felt Vegeta’s lips on her neck before she even realized he was behind her, then his hands snaked around her waist, pulling her backward against him as he opened his mouth to place a gentle bite on her shoulder. She sighed as his fingers found the zipper of her coveralls, hands slipping inside to cup her breasts through her shirt beneath.

                “Vegeta,” she giggled, leaning into him. “My dad will be back any second. He just went to grab another cup of coffee.”

                “I know,” the prince said, pulling her zipper back up and stepping away. “I saw him leave.”

                “And what, you figured you’d stop in for a quick grope?” She asked wryly, and rolled her eyes at his answering smirk. “Of course you did. Letch.” She turned her attention back to the schematics and he stepped up to the worktable beside her. “I’m all ready to go here.” She said, pushing the papers across the table to him. “As you can see, we can accomplish much of the building with parts we have on hand,” she pointed to a few key areas as his keen eyes watched, “but in order to get the GR up and running, we’ll need to track down a few bits. I’m not willing to sacrifice our extra gravity modulator – we need it as a back up for Red Station’s gravity simulator – and I’ll need to purchase some extra strong building materials so the stupid thing doesn’t go crashing in on itself when we turn it on. I’ve sourced some out,” she pushed another piece of paper toward Vegeta, a list of parts and prices, “and priced everything. It’s…well, it isn’t going to be cheap.” She tapped the number at the bottom of the page, circled in red ink, and Vegeta shrugged.

                “It won’t be an issue.” He said, pushing the sheet back to her and ignoring her stunned look. It was a large figure, but as he’d informed her before, Vegeta had no lack of funds. “Order the parts. We will leave as soon as possible.”

*

*

                Zarbon had the feeling that something was not quite right with his master that morning as he stood respectfully awaiting his orders in the ship’s command room. There were more high level guards present than usual, as well as a seedy looking little quadruped that Zarbon had never seen before, but who kept glancing nervously at the beautiful officer. As if he’d stoop to such levels, Zarbon thought, catching the creature’s eyes on him once more. He sneered, as if to say _not even in your dreams_ and turned back to his Master, who was tapping impatient fingers on the arm of his hovering chair as the navigational officer gave the morning’s report.

                “Enough!” Frieza shouted impatiently, halfway through, and waved his hand in dismissal. “I do not care. Steer my ship, you useless worm, and do not bother me with petty details.” The navigational officer scuttled away to do as he was told, and the unfamiliar little beast stepped forward. “You,” Frieza demanded, seeing the peasant before him. “What do you want? Who the hell are you?”

                “A humble informer, my lord,” the creature replied in a voice like gravel as it sketched an awkward bow, its two front legs bending at the knee while the back two remained straight and stiff, “with loftier goals.” Two clawlike hands extended from short arms above the front legs, and Zarbon noticed uneasily that it clutched in one pincer a small disk. It looked to him once more, this time grinning, and unease turned into a bolt of panic thundering down Zarbon’s spine. The creature handed the disk off to one of the guards, who popped it immediately into the console in Frieza’s chair.

“ _Urgent message to be passed on to Vengeance at whatever cost.”_ Zarbon’s voice crackled out of the speakers, and the lizard man felt his stomach drop as Frieza’s lips twisted with rage.“ _Beware the Namekian refugees. Ginyu hides among them_.”

                “Perhaps you will recognize the voice.” The informer’s voice was smugly satisfied, and Zarbon knew that his trust had been betrayed, and for nothing. In all likelihood, the message had not even reached Vengeance. Zarbon felt panic building within him, though he appeared still calm on the outside. He’d always known there was the possibility of being outed as a spy, but he’d never thought it would happen like this, with no chance for escape after such a spectacular failure. He’d imagined dying in some glory at least, cut down by the master after having pulled off some amazing feat of sabotage.

                “ _Zarbon_ ,” Frieza hissed, his head turning slowly to the subordinate that he had trusted so completely, the man whose service he cherished. His face was twisted into an ugly scowl, his eyes bulging and red as rage built within his little body. “You, it’s been you all along, leaking my secrets, you filthy little toad!” With hardly a signal, the multitude of guards had surrounded Zarbon, the boldest among them coming forward to attack.

                In a surprise move, Zarbon loosed the ugly side of himself, his muscles bulging as his face bloated and flattened until he was no longer recognizable as the beauteous and beloved servant he had always been. He launched himself at Frieza in a desperate bid to do some damage before the guards were upon him, but was easily swatted aside by the diminutive little tyrant, his body slamming into a wall before he was pelted by the force of fifteen energy rifles firing at will.

                “Don’t kill him.” Frieza ordered, a frightening calm in his voice. “Take him to my lower chambers.” He said, and Zarbon howled in fear and pain as he was lifted by the guards, bruised and broken. He struggled but there were too many of them. “No matter what he does to incite you, do not kill him. Do I make myself clear?” Frieza demanded, and the resounding “yes sir” of the guards sent chills up and down his body. Zarbon had only been punished with a trip to the lower chambers once in his life, and the experience had nearly broken him. He’d seen strong men broken apart down there, shattered into pieces and then put back together in sick, fractured parodies of their former selves. The lower chambers were Frieza’s personal torture chambers, a place where the tyrant did things that Zarbon would never wish on even the worst of his enemies. He knew all too well what went on down there, for he had many a time been witness to the master’s sick pleasures.

                “Have you anything to say to yourself, little froggy?” Frieza’s shrill voice descended upon him, the lizard king having stepped down from his hovering chair, and come to stand before Zarbon’s captive form. “No bursts of heroic tripe, now vows of revenge by your slimy little cohorts?” The tyrant laughed, bringing his face so close to Zarbon’s that the green man could feel the master’s breath on his cheeks. “That was never like you anyway, pet.” He chuckled as Zarbon’s lips curled back in disgust. “A pity, to lose one such as yourself in my ranks. You were always very good to me Zarbon.” Frieza’s voice dropped as his hand caressed the rough skin of his captive’s forehead, his fingers knotting in the other’s silky hair, tugging hard until tears formed at the corners of Zarbon’s eyes. “But now, pet,” he whispered and Zarbon felt panic swelling within his chest, “now I’ll be able to have as much fun with you as I want. What have you got to say to that?”

                Zarbon locked eyes with Frieza, the fear welling in his chest urging him to plead, to beg for forgiveness from the powerful little master, telling him he’d never stand a chance down in Frieza’s private torture chamber. But Zarbon knew it would do him no good. His capitulation would only drive the monster wild, his tears and screams the ultimate aphrodisiac for Frieza’s sadistic tastes, and despite his predicament, Zarbon suddenly felt too prideful to beg, to end his life pleading on his knees. He thought, absurdly, of Vegeta, the only man he’d ever known to survive multiple trips to the lower chambers with his mind intact, each time effecting the opposite of what was intended and driving Frieza closer and closer to madness from it. He thought of the Saiyan Prince’s defiance, his flagrant disrespect, and wondered what the filthy monkey would have done in this situation.

                “Well, what have you got to say?” Frieza demanded again, tugging so hard on Zarbon’s braid that he thought it might rip from his skull. Zarbon sneered at his cruel master, hocked back, and spit with all his might, right into Frieza’s face. “You piece of shit!” Frieza shrieked, furiously wiping the bloody gob of phlegm from his cheek. His fist tightened in Zarbon’s hair and he forced the man’s head down into the floor, pressing so hard that Zarbon thought his neck might snap from the pressure. A part of him hoped it did, as he thought of the tortures awaiting him.

A laugh escaped from Zarbon’s throat, wild and crazy, panicked and yet joyful. He would die a free man, no longer slave to the master’s edicts, no longer carrying out the duties of a genocidal, sadistic madman. He would die bloody and broken, shamed beyond what he’d ever thought possible, he was sure, but he’d at least not die in the name of Frieza’s cause and that was as good a death as he could hope for at this point.

                ``Well, what do you think of that?” Zarbon laughed out, his voice muffled against the cold tiles of the floor. Frieza pulled back on his braid again, yanking his head up once more. “How do you like it, being fooled all this time?” He hissed out, even as Frieza continued to pull, enough so that Zarbon was once more on his knees and being pulled even further backward so his back bent in a painful arc.

                “I think,” Frieza said, leaning down to whisper menacingly in Zarbon’s ear, “that you will regret every second you spent deceiving me, before I see fit to slaughter your sorry carcass.” The diminutive tyrant stood and addressed the men holding his once trusted servant captive. “Take him away now.”

*

*

                As it turned out, ‘as soon as possible’ was pretty damn quick, and Bulma was surprised to find herself alone on a ship with four saiyans...well, three and a half, she supposed, still not really sure where to count Gohan. The fact that no one else really knew where to count him had, in fact, contributed to her fate as the lone human aboard the ship. None of the others had really wanted to cloister themselves up with the volatile saiyans, though Krillin had bravely offered to accompany her after Vegeta made public his decision to leave Goku at Red Station. She’d gently turned him down, confident that Vegeta would keep her safe, and then Gohan had very sweetly promised to look after her.

                Bulma didn’t quite understand why they were taking Gohan and not Goku; she was certain that Vegeta hadn’t suddenly grown a heart and let her friend stay because of the situation with Chichi. It just wasn’t his style, and the omission of the newest member of their little troupe sat uneasily in her chest, her curiosity verging onto worry. She wondered exactly how the other saiyans thought of Goku. Looking at the five of them together, it was obvious that he was different; even little Gohan seemed more like them than his full-blooded father did. And they, in turn, seemed to treat Gohan as one of their own, while Goku was watched with wary eyes and ruffled tails, as though he was some foreign wolf dropped suddenly into another pack’s territory. They still saw him as a little bit of an outsider.

                Bulma saw something different. She had not believed that Goku could be relative to any one of those saiyan brutes, but seeing him again...seeing him after his exposure to the cruelties of the universe and not simply through the memories she had of him, it had practically hit her in the face. Goku was like them, more so than any of them would probably ever know. She saw it in the angles of his face, the shock of his hair and the depth of his eyes, but it went beyond physical. She saw in him the same warrior nature, the tightly reigned strength hidden below a cheerful front, his control so tenuous it might snap and kill them all at any moment.

                No, Goku was not quite the man she remembered from Earth, but the lack of his presence here on Vegeta’s ship meant that he wasn’t quite saiyan either.

*

                Back on Red Station, Goku wasn’t quite sure himself what to think of the fact that he’d been left behind. He wasn’t really bothered by it; quite the contrary, he was pleased not to have been ordered along, but all the same he was unsettled. He wondered if he’d have felt the same way if they’d left Gohan behind, or if Gohan had at least asked to stay behind.

                “You will stay here,” Vegeta had said, pointing at Goku, “and the rest of you will come with me.” And everyone had shrugged their shoulders and gone to pack their things. Goku himself had thought about arguing, if only for the fact that he wanted to take back some control over his son, but in the end he’d remained quiet. He’d had another chance at launch, thinking Chichi might object – she objected to _everything_ , he recalled – but she’d simply hugged their son goodbye, reminded him to stay warm and eat well, and given Goku a strange look as though puzzled by the fact that he was the only one left out. Then Radditz – Radditz! – had promised Chichi he’d look out for Gohan, and Goku had felt as though he’d died and gone to an alternate dimension. Since when did Chichi listen to anybody, trust anybody who wasn’t herself? And with the welfare of Gohan, no less! Goku knew that if he’d been the one to assure their son’s safe return, she’d have narrowed her eyes in that soul-searing way of hers and been along for the ride in no time.

                When, exactly, had the universe turned itself upside down?

                “Hey man, you okay?” Krillin”s voice broke the silence, startling Goku. “Ahh, sorry,” the bald monk scratched his head, a habit he’d picked up from a long life of association with Goku, “it’s just that you’ve been sitting there, staring at a blank tv for a while now...”

                “Um, truthfully I don’t know how to turn it on.” Goku shrugged, feeling a bit silly. “It’s different than the one we had at home and really, I didn’t watch it much.”

                Krillin rushed to show Goku the remote, thinking of the Son family’s old rabbit-eared, dial operated monstrosity, and feeling bad for the oversight. The old thing probably would have been covered in dust and cobwebs from disuse, if Chichi had ever allowed a single mote of dust to even settle on a surface in her home. “Was there something you wanted to watch?” Krillin asked, bringing up the channel guide. “We’re able to bring in programming from two galaxies, and most of it is broadcast in standard.” He continued brightly, aware that he sounded like a advertisement for their broadcast provider as he flipped through to find something that his friend might enjoy. “How about this?” He asked, turning toward Goku, only to sheepishly realize that the other man wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention. “Oh...” he paused, “this really isn’t about tv, is it?”

                “Got me.” Goku smiled a little shakily.

                “D’you need to talk?” Krillin asked, and when his friend made no reply, Krillin asked instead, “Do you need to fight?” which was of course the right question, as Goku perked up immediately. “Come on, let’s go spar.”

                Feeling better already, Goku followed his diminutive friend to the training rooms, where he was surprised to find Tien working through a complex looking kata. He stopped and stood awkwardly as they entered. “Goku,” Tien nodded in greeting, “I had heard that you arrived here...I should have come...” He stopped, unsure of how to continue. He and Goku had not been friends on Earth, but they were no longer enemies and had the ship not been crawling with saiyans, Tien might have made an earlier appearance.

                “It’s okay.” Goku smiled and came into the room. “It’s good to see you again. I’m glad you survived.” Tien said nothing and Krillin winced, thinking of the doll-faced prince who must have perished somewhere along the way. The triclops had never really spoken of Chiaotzu and so the other earthlings were left to wonder and to speculate.

                “Yes...we were not all so lucky.” Tien finally answered, his voice laced with bitterness and disappointment.

                “I felt him go, you know.” Goku sat down on one of the benches that lined the walls of the room. “When he self destructed, I felt the blast. He must have taken out a lot of Frieza’s men.”

                “He did.” Tien admitted, his hands balling into fists at his side. Krillin stepped back into the doorway, suddenly uncomfortable with the level of tension in the room, burned by the crackle of emotion he could feel from Tien. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? We still failed. I failed. Chiautzu is dead, Earth is gone and yet here I am, living this useless life, cloistered away, unable to do anything to avenge him!” Energy fizzled around the three eyed warrior, sparking out at random as it breached his walls of self control. “I sometimes wish I could have died like he did.”

                “Don’t say that, Tien.” Krillin inched back in, still not entirely sure that the one-time assassin was not about to explode, but feeling guilty for the part he’d played in Tien’s frustration. “We’ll let you help us take Frieza down.” He said, earnestly. “From now on. I’ll talk to Bulma. You’ll be part of the team.” Krillin promised, certain that this was the Tien of Earth. How could Ginyu possibly know about Chiaotzu? And even if he had access to Tien’s memories, how could he possibly fake this kind of emotion, this kind of pain? Krillin resolved to tell Vegeta to shelve his suspicions; he hoped the saiyan prince would listen. Krllin paused, thinking maybe he should ask Bulma to tell him instead – the volatile alien was certainly more likely to listen to her than to him!

                Tien seemed mollified, though maudlin, and Krillin felt that the mood had been ruined. Everyone’s energy seemed to have gone with Tien’s outburst; even Goku looked as though he wasn’t really up for much of a fight.

                “What the hell happened?” Goku asked suddenly, looking distressed. “Chiaotzu is dead, Yamcha is dead. My son has become someone I don’t know. My wife...” he choked up, “my wife is a different person. I’m a different person. Earth is gone and I don’t know where I am or what I’m even supposed to do!” He slammed one fist against the bench beside him, pent up frustration coming to the fore. “These aren’t even my clothes!” He cried, tugging at his shirt. “I don’t even own a pair of pants!”

                Krillin stepped uncertainly toward his friend, not really sure what to do. He wasn’t so good at dealing with emotions – Krillin was the type of man who hid behind humour and good spirits, which had suited him well within his rough, tough circle of friends. He’d never seen Goku so distraught about anything in his life and the experience was not something he wished ever to see again. Goku had always been the strong one, the one in control, the guy who everyone turned to when the situation was crumbling down around their ears. His confidence and power had been their rallying point through thick and thin, and yet now he sat with his head in his hands, a confused and defeated man.

                “You’re back with us now, Goku.” Krillin said, his voice wavering with uncertainty. “I don’t know what’s going to happen any more than you, but you’re back with your friends, and we have new allies, a new home. Earth is gone and so many of our friends with it, but we have a new goal. We have a universe to save!” He said, bravely sidling up to Goku, surprising himself with how gaunt the other man’s shoulder seemed beneath his fingers as he squeezed. “You’ll do what you always do, Goku. You’ll get up with us and you’ll fight for what’s right. You’ll fight alongside us, alongside Chichi and Gohan because despite it all, they’re on the same side. We’re all on the same side.”

                “Pretty words.” A gruff voice startled Krillin, who turned to see Piccolo standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

                “Geez, do you have to do that?” He complained, swiping a hand across his suddenly sweaty forehead. “You and Vegeta, you’re a real pair, you know that? Always sneaking in, making your dramatic entrances at my expense!”

                “Goku, pick yourself up.” Piccolo commanded, striding into the room and completely ignoring Krillin’s indignant tirade. He felt Tien tense from across the room and turned his glare on the three-eyed warrior. “Both of you are being completely pathetic.” Piccolo grunted before turning back to the dishevelled saiyan before him. “Get your ass up and use your anger for something productive!” He snarled, reaching out to haul Goku to his feet by his shirtfront.  “You too, little man.” He pointed at Krillin with his free hand, the other still fisted in the fabric at Goku’s collarbone. “You’ll never get anywhere with this pathetic, goody goody shit.” He turned back toward Goku and swung his arm, sending the other man stumbling toward the training mat. “I didn’t keep you alive for all these years just so you could wallow in your own self pity. The Goku I remember would never sit on a bench, crying his eyes out over a twist of fate. Where is the man that Piccolo Daimyo hated and feared, the man Kami trusted with the fate of the Earth?”

                “I...I don’t know if I’m that person anymore!” Goku wailed, shuffling backward as Piccolo shoved him. “I don’t know how to be that guy!”

                “Well you’d better fucking figure it out!” Piccolo yelled, aiming a punch at Goku’s stomach. “Because I didn’t fuse with that old bastard for nothing!” Goku managed a block, and the match began in earnest.

*

*

                Bulma fiddled with her pencil, not really concentrating on the wide array of papers spread out before her. She’d commandeered the common area of the ship’s living quarters as her own personal office, seeing as there was really nowhere else with the space for her to set up, and the saiyans hardly stepped out of the training center unless it was mealtime or bedtime. Even the thought of sleep was oftentimes not enough to entice them away – the proof was in the 3am wake-up-and-have-sex-with-me stunts that Vegeta had been pulling, when he actually bothered to come to bed, that was.

                Frankly, Bulma had been both surprised and a little bit pleased to find out that her bags had ended up in Vegeta’s room and that he’d obviously intended for them to go there. Despite his obvious pursuit of her, on Red Station he was cagey about their relationship; refusing to move his things into her room, hardly ever sitting beside her, never touching her in view of the other inhabitants of the station, even after her mother had so kindly spilled the beans at dinner. Everyone knew, yet he still acted very secretive. Bulma had thought that he was just like that – not into public displays of affection, not wanting everybody to know his business. Here though, surrounded by his kin, he was different.

                That wasn’t to say that Vegeta was outright affectionate because that would have been a bald faced lie. He still didn’t kiss her in front of his men, didn’t hold her hand or hug her unless he was actually going in for a grope, which didn’t happen all that often because ninety percent of his time was taken up with training. The other ten was divided up between eating, sleeping, and – she blushed – making her squeal. Judging by the hoarseness of her voice, she guessed that saiyans really didn’t need very much sleep to function. The change in him was something more subtle, perhaps the way in which he stood closer to her, allowed his hand or tail to brush her skin every so often. He just seemed more relaxed, less on guard about the whole thing.

                Bulma wondered what it meant. She really had no idea what Vegeta thought of her or their particular acquaintance, nor could she really figure out what she thought of him. Yeah, he was phenomenal in the sack and she’d long ago figured out that behind his surly, unpleasant demeanour lived a decent man worth getting to know. But was he forever? Bulma wasn’t so sure, and damn her mother for ever putting the thought into her head!

                “What troubles you?” Radditz asked, and Bulma realized suddenly that she was frowning quite intently into space. She glared at the long-haired saiyan, attributing to his presence her initial inability to concentrate, which had lead her down the thought path that had her so unsettled.

                “Flux capacitors.” She lied, pretending to scribble a few notes with her pencil to give herself credibility. She looked from her nonsense calculation back to Radditz. “What are you doing here, anyway?” She asked, looking at her watch. He’d ambled in over an hour ago and had proceeded to flip through programs on the tv, though Bulma knew his eyes were on her more than the screen, which naturally set her on edge – the reason she’d been thinking about everything but the blueprints and notes in front of her.

                “I’m trying to figure something out.” Radditz said with a sigh. He stood up and switched chairs so that he was right next to her, and a sudden bolt of alarm shot through her body. As far as saiyans went, Bulma had always considered Radditz to be a decent sort of guy – he was sort of friendly and obviously had a soft spot for his nephew, plus he had a huge crush on Puar that she actually found quite endearing – but she’d never been alone with Radditz and there he was looming over her, all muscles and hair and bare skin, and she suddenly realized how very big he was.

                “Um, what’s that?” Bulma squeaked out, scooting over on the couch only to have Radditz lean further in.                

“That day at the research facility,” Radditz looked her up and down through narrowed eyes, “after you went to the washroom and came back, something about you hit me. Had we been somewhere else...” he trailed off, and the look in his eyes made Bulma realize why Puar was both so intimidated and enraptured by this man, “I wanted to eat you, you smelled so good. And then I found you again and I thought I might die seeing that you were already something to Vegeta, but I got closer to you and,” he leaned in and inhaled, closing his eyes as he did so, “nothing. Absolutely fucking nil.” He sat back, studying her again, and Bulma felt like the rabbit who escaped the fox at just the last second. When he continued, he was once again the breezy, joking man she’d seen giving Gohan noogies in the middle of training spars. “Which is,” he leaned back into the couch and crossed one leg over the other, “a good thing, I guess. Vegeta would tear my fucking heart out through my ass if he thought I was snaking in on his mate, but it leaves me confused. What was it about you that day that drove me so wild I could hardly contain myself?” Radditz looked sideways at her, his eyebrows knitted together into a deep frown.

                “Um...perfume?” Bulma shrugged, cursing at how high her voice had come out. Should she tell him about Puar? It really wasn’t her place but he seemed so...so...sad.

                “Perfume!” He snorted, allowing his head to fall back. She watched his eyes dart around the ceiling, as though searching for an answer. “Was it the same for him?” Radditz sighed. “Will it be the same as with you if I see him again? I thought he was my mate, but what if I see him again, and zip? I mean, no offense, you’re totally hot and all, but you’re missing something for me. If you weren’t Vegeta’s and I hadn’t met Puar, I’d totally still be thinking about fucking you.”

                “Uh, thanks.”

                “No problem.” Radditz shrugged. “Like I said, you’re definitely boneable, but since you changed smells again, you’re just not doing it for me.”

                “So you think you’ll see this guy again and he’ll smell differently and suddenly you won’t like him anymore?” Bulma asked, and Radditz nodded. “So what’s the problem? You don’t like him, you move on. It’s not like you’re stuck with him.”

                “But...” Radditz shook his head as though trying to clear his thoughts. “But I think I _want_ to be stuck with him. I want him to be my mate; I can’t think of anything else! And if I see him again and it’s not the same, I think I might just self destruct. Like my balls will explode from all the pressure!” He wailed, cupping one hand illustratively over his crotch. He looked over her, still palming his junk and said, “But I guess you don’t really know what that feels like.”

                Bulma thought of her first time, like the first time of many of her female friends. The build up, the expectations and the ideals, and the sudden, crushing disappointment of _Oh, baby, did you come too?_  “You have no idea.” She said, and he grinned at her. “Anyway, if you only like this guy for the way he smells, that’s a pretty terrible reason to want to be with him.”

                “Oh, he’s hot too.” Radditz assured her. “And he fucks like an animal.”

                “Okay, slightly better reasons.” Bulma rolled her eyes and tried not to let her mind go there. She wondered how Radditz would react if she told him Puar was actually an animal. “How about his personality, his beliefs? What do you have in common?”

                “Pfft, like I know. We didn’t talk much, if you get my drift.” Radditz’s hand finally left his groin and Bulma could see that the area in question had grown considerably. Quickly, she forced her eyes back to his grinning face. The man had no shame. “Besides, I just have a feeling.” He looked down at her. “Like Vegeta has for you. Nappa told us, a saiyan just knows it when he’s met his mate. Vegeta’s just lucky he actually managed to hold onto you. Puar could be anywhere in the universe. I might never see him again.”

                “You keep using that term. Mate. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bulma pulled back, feeling a small bubble of panic rise in her belly. Forever was a scary thought when you’d been living just day to day for the past several years. “You’re confused. Vegeta’s hardly said two words to me since we boarded.”

                “Hmm, he’s fucking you _that_ much?” Radditz’s eyebrows rose and he peered down at her once more. “Vegeta’s never been so interested in a female. Nappa must be right, he’s definitely bonded to you.” Bulma swallowed uncertainly, recalling a late night conversation she’d had with the prince in question in which he’d explained that particular term and then called it outright bullshit. “Though Vegeta will swear up and down it isn’t true. He just doesn’t want anybody, even if it’s fate, telling him what to do.” Radditz continued blithely, unaware of the sudden discomfort of the female next to him.

                “So what are you saying? He’s stuck with me?”

                “Well to be fair, you’re stuck with him too.” Radditz shrugged. “Unless you want him to tear apart the competition. Heart out the ass, remember?”

                “Yeah...heart out the ass.” Bulma repeated, as though it were some sort of slogan. She really didn’t know how she felt about that. Obviously she didn’t want Vegeta to rip anyone’s anything out from anywhere over her, but if Radditz was correct she was, for all intents and purposes, stuck with Vegeta for the rest of her life. Married in the saiyan way without her consent or even her knowledge, and with no chance of divorce.

                Yeah she liked him, probably more than she should and definitely more than was good for her...but forever? Forever was a long time and she’d only known Vegeta about a year, if she counted time spent conversing with Vengeance. Yamcha she’d known for nearly two decades, and she’d never made it past ‘maybe’ with him! Shit, what was she going to do? What could she do?

                “Hey brat, finished your work?” Radditz grinned at Gohan, forgetting the serious conversation with Bulma as the child walked into the room with a stack of books and papers. Bulma was surprised to see him and wondered exactly what he’d been up to.

                “Yeah, though I don’t know where Nappa comes up with some of this junk.” Gohan dumped the pile on the table, careful not to obscure any of Bulma’s papers, and breathed a sigh. “He said you’re supposed to look it over for mistakes because he’s still busy getting his ass,” he glanced sideways at Bulma, “um...I mean butt handed to him by Vegeta.”

                “Me? Ugh!” Radditz complained, leaning forward to snatch the top piece of paper. “Grammar worksheet...blech. Nappa actually wastes his time making this shit for you? Jeez. What else is in here?” He tossed the paper aside and picked up a bound notebook. “He makes you keep a journal?” Radditz rolled his eyes.         

“Nappa says it’s the same stuff that he taught Vegeta.” Gohan insisted, as though the prince’s suffering through it somehow made it worthwhile.

                “Gods, and Vegeta must be a cruel soul indeed, to insist that you go through it too.”

                “What are you learning?”  Bulma asked, if only to save the poor kid from his uncle’s disdain. She couldn’t imagine Nappa as a teacher, sitting behind his desk while his young charges ate up his every word.

                “Saiyan,” Gohan said, with not a small amount of pride. “Nappa says my speech is coming along well.” He added, sticking his tongue out at Radditz. “And the history and customs of the people of Vegetasei.”

                “You mean the history and customs of a whole lot of space dust and the language of a dead race.” Radditz huffed.

                “Vegeta thinks it’s important!” Gohan retorted. “He says that once dad recovers, Nappa will start teaching him saiyan too!”

                “Recovers?” Bulma interrupted, having been about to ask why Radditz was being such a stick in the mud. “Recovers from what?” She asked, her eyes darting between the two saiyans as they shared a look. Well, Radditz looked at Gohan, as if to say _look what you did now!_ while Gohan looked away to avoid his uncle’s irritated gaze.

                “From the wasting.” Radditz answered. “Kakarott spent too much time undernourished and overworked. His body is essentially devouring itself and the only thing stopping his death is what little power level he managed to build up before the condition set in.”

                “Vegeta had it once.” Gohan added earnestly, moreso to remind himself than to inform Bulma that it was not necessarily a death sentence. “That’s why he’s so short. Well, that’s what we think, at least.”

                “Wait, wait, wait.” Bulma held up her hands , palms outward in a ‘stop’ sort of gesture. “What? I don’t know if I heard you right,” she turned to Radditz and he was suddenly uncomfortable under her glare, “but I _thought_ I heard you say that Goku’s body is eating away at itself. Now don’t you think that’s important information for me to know?” She demanded, this time including Gohan in her withering gaze. He cringed; Bulma had obviously been spending far too much time with his mother.

                “Well...” Gohan looked uncomfortable. “It’s not like we’re going around telling everybody because...well, dad doesn’t even know. He gets that there’s something not right with him, I think, but he doesn’t know the exact nature of the problem.”

                “Nobody _told_ him?” Bulma reared back, flabbergasted. “Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

                “Vegeta didn’t want to place any added strain on him.” Gohan was squirming in his seat by this point. “See...well, don’t you think he’s got enough to deal with right now? My dad’s not dumb or anything, but he can only worry about so many things at once, and with the stress of my mom, with rejoining some sort of normal society and being told he’s not actually human and he has this other family he never knew about...”

                “It’s a lot to take in.” Radditz put in forcefully as Gohan trailed off, and Bulma recognized that they were closing ranks on her, sticking together as they were so used to doing against the rest of the universe.

                “Okay,” Bulma sighed, backing down. “Okay, so I guess I’m sworn to secrecy then, right? Just tell me what I can do to help make it better.”

                “Not much,” Radditz answered. “Vegeta and Nappa are pretty confident that just getting him out of that camp will do wonders. He’ll be eating a proper amount again and the opportunity to train will help him build up his strength so that he can begin to counter the effects of the wasting.”

                “You said Vegeta’s growth was stunted because of it.” Bulma pointed out. “Obviously there is going to be some long term effects on Goku as well.”

                “Ehh, not necessarily.” Radditz shrugged, waving off the issue. “Vegeta was still a child when he suffered the disease. He didn’t get super weak, his power level didn’t slide downhill like Kakarott’s. If he’d been fully grown then maybe.”

                “Nappa said there might have been some strain on his organs,” Gohan added; it was obvious that he’d been asking a lot of questions and Bulma was pleased that the saiyans had at least had the courtesy to answer him truthfully. “But that it’s usually nothing permanent. He says it’s not as bad for adult saiyans.”

                “Well Nappa seems to know an awful lot about this.” Bulma huffed, unable to put aside her concerns so easily.

                “Pfft, who do you think took care of Vegeta all those years and taught him how to be saiyan?” Radditz scoffed, as though he found it preposterous that she did not know the entire life history of the small saiyan crew. “He was only five when Frieza snatched him away, you know, and me, I was hardly more than a brat myself. What good was I to a cub of a prince?” He wasn’t looking at her anymore, nor at Gohan, but instead was staring angrily at the far wall, as though remonstrating himself for his inability to do anything for the poor, displaced heir of a dead throne.

                “You couldn’t have done anything for him, any more than I could.” Gohan nudged his uncle in the thigh with his fist, and Bulma figured that was probably about the closest they ever got to hugging.

                “ANYWAY,” Radditz coughed loudly, leaned forward, and began shuffling Gohan’s papers. “I’ve got shit to do here.” He looked pointedly at Bulma.

                “Oh no you don’t, I was here first!” She gestured at the pile spread out across the table and the surrounding floor. “I’m not moving.”

                “Oh...well, fine.” Radditz stood abruptly and cuffed Gohan genly on the back of the head. “C’mon brat, let’s go.” He stood and left, Gohan following, and Bulma laughed to see that neither had bothered to grab the small mountain of school work. Curiously, she picked up the notebook from the top of the pile herself and took a look, though she couldn’t make heads or tails of the characters written on the cover, nor any of the pages within. This must be the journal that Radditz had scoffed at. Curious, she flipped through it, all the while wishing she could read the carefully crafted words, each symbol painstakingly neat in the way that small children are prone to write, their inexperienced hands not quite used to the intricacies of letters.

                The characters themselves stood starkly out upon the page, their simplicity strangely in keeping with what she knew, or thought she knew, of saiyan culture. This was no flowing, elegant script, but a boldly scratched declaration. There was no flowery beauty here, but raw meaning. Frowning, Bulma wondered again what the words might say. Gohan was only eight, but somehow it seemed wrong to her that the striking characters might simply relate the thoughts of a child, rather than the passion and the rage they seemed to convey by their looks.

                If this was Vegeta’s journal, she wondered, what might it say? Taken from his family and his home at a scant five years old, what had been going through his young mind? What feelings of dejection and anger had the young prince scratched out, or would he have kept them to himself, choosing instead to detail the mundane aspects of his daily life?

                “The second one, for sure.” Bulma sighed aloud, putting the notebook back down and looking to her own pile of neglected work. Perhaps one day she would sit alongside Goku and Gohan as Nappa’s good little student, but for now the only language she needed to immerse herself in was that of particle physics.

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Thanks for reading, thanks for your patience. Please consider leaving a review; I’d love to know your thoughts!


	28. Chapter 28

 Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: There is some disturbing content in this chapter having to do with Zarbon and Frieza. While not ridiculously graphic or gory, it is still potentially upsetting. You have been warned.

Also, I’m sorry this took so abominably long to post. It’s been a busy summer so far.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Zarbon opened his eyes, wincing as the dried blood cracked and stuck, pulling a few eyelashes from their rightful places. He peered around the room – thank whatever forces that ran the universe, they’d not yet gone for his eyes; the blood had dripped down from his forehead – but it was a fairly useless endeavour. The lights were off and the chambers were silent but that meant nothing; Frieza would sometimes keep the place fully lit for days at a time, or the opposite. Zarbon snorted to himself – a bitter, self depreciating sound – and recalled a time when he’d been impressed by how quickly one could crack a sentient mind, simply by ruining its sense of day and night. “Circadian rhythm.” He said aloud, for no reason at all. Thinking on it, he realized that the words had sort of just tumbled out of his mouth as he thought them; he hadn’t intended to speak.

                “Shit.” He said to the empty space around him. “Does that mean it’s working?”

                Zarbon wondered how long he’d been trapped down in Frieza’s basement. As an observer of the tortures, he’d never truly understood the odd sense of timelessness a prisoner might experience in this place, cut off from all sense of routine that might have provided some clue as to the passage of minutes, hours, days. To Zarbon, there was no telling whether he’d been chained in the dark for a day or a week. Even the rate of healing of his injuries could not be trusted, as every time someone ventured down to see him, new wounds were created or old ones exacerbated. Like his wrist, for example, currently so swollen that he feared the metal cuffs that bound his arms together might start to actually cut into his flesh. The wrist had been bruised, strained at worst, during the confrontation with Frieza, later to be crunched beneath the bootheel of some lucky pet. Zarbon shuddered, various chains clanking together as his body shook; he’d been that lucky pet once. He’d been the man testing the flexibility of fingers and toes, the strength of bones and flesh, and now he was the unlucky canvas on which some other sick, young fool would paint to prove his worth to the master.

                “Master.” Zarbon spat the word with all the venom his scaly ancestors might have possessed. How many times had he said that word, bowed down, fallen to his knees, bent over? How long since adoration had turned into abhorrence of the creature – the monster – who called himself emperor?

                Zarbon sighed and shifted, trying to ease the pressure of the cuff on his swollen wrist without much success. He grimaced; it wasn’t as though the rest of his body was exactly in top condition either. There were other bruises, cuts, and broken bones, not to mention that his hair was a fucking _mess_ , but he couldn’t deal with all of it at once. If he focused on one pain, the others seemed to dull and at the moment, that was the only coping method available to him.

                Strangely enough, Frieza had yet to show up, and Zarbon wasn’t quite sure whether to be pleased or frightened by his absence. He hoped that perhaps he’d managed to cause some trouble, something big that the little tyrant was desperately trying to contain and spin in his favour, but Zarbon knew the likelihood that his message had gotten out was very slim, considering that the little shit he’d trusted it with had turned on him. No, Frieza was probably deliberately delaying his own sojourn into Zarbon’s private hell, building the tension. Bastard probably knew just how nerve wracking it was to wait and to wonder when the worst pain imaginable would descend.

                Truthfully, Zarbon wondered just how long he would be able to survive under Frieza’s assault. The men and women who’d been at him so far were all very good at inflicting pain, but Frieza...Frieza was a master in the art of inflicting misery. Zarbon had watched Frieza drive men mad, torture them until they were begging for death, without ever inflicting so much as a bruise. “And now it’s my turn.” Zarbon whispered into the darkness. He had the distinct feeling that there was someone watching him, someone very, very near to him, though he couldn’t make a thing out in the darkness and he hadn’t heard anyone approaching.

                “Who’s there?” He asked, but there was no reply. He held his own breath and strained to hear his visitor’s, if indeed there was anyone there, but again he was met with nothing. Zarbon gasped in a deep breath and when he finally let it out again, the feeling had gone and he was certain, beyond any doubt, that he was alone.

.

.

                Just like living with them, shopping with the saiyans was an interesting challenge. For one, she could barely see the stalls of goods for the living wall that had formed around her. Akeebah market was the best place for black market mechanicals, Vegeta had told her, and she’d been looking forward to poking around but apparently ‘browsing’ was not in the saiyan vocabulary. If it wasn’t on her gravity room parts list, then they weren’t interested. Bulma was really regretting having written the damn list.

                “Oh for the love of...” Bulma trailed off as she was once again denied the opportunity to dig through a ramshackle pile of parts. “There could have been something good in there!” She grumbled and latched on to Vegeta’s arm, vainly trying to haul him back toward the junk heap.

                “We have a list,” Vegeta said, “and limited time. I don’t want too many people to see us and have it get back to Frieza that the entirety of the Saiyan Squadron was fussing about in a black market of electronics.”

                “Duh, Vegeta, if it gets back to the lizard, you just tell him you were following a lead on Vengeance, or his just-as-dangerous-and-much-smarter colleague, Blue.” Bulma tossed her hair and allowed herself to be led away from the tempting collection of odds and ends. This was a battle that she was not going to win. Perhaps if the others hadn’t been there, she might have convinced Vegeta into humouring her a little, but she didn’t believe for even a second that he’d give in while his men were watching.

                “Oh, and who shall I say was the ugly hag that accompanied us?” He asked, and didn’t even flinch when she pinched him on the arm. “We stick to the list,” Vegeta said, “and then we get the fuck out of here.” Bulma huffed her disappointment, but none of the adults paid her any attention. Gohan shot her a sympathetic look, but it was clear that she was on her own in this one. He, Radditz and Nappa had pretty much been relegated to ‘pack mule’ status and had gotten stuck carrying the heavy stuff since none of them understood what they were looking for well enough to be of any help. None of them were particularly enthused at the idea of following Bulma around from stall to stall while she poked through every single scrap pile in the entire market, and they were especially not about to disobey Vegeta in order to humour her.

                Surprisingly enough, Vegeta turned out to be a good deal of help, not only in negotiating with the merchants, but he understood a good deal of the science behind the gravity room and had an eye keen enough to spot the parts that they needed. She supposed that years and years of doing his own pre-flight checkups had really familiarized him with every component of his ships, from propulsion systems and gravity simulators, right down to the construction that allowed them to withstand such heavy pressure. Bulma felt his tail twitch against her leg as she examined an air intake valve, trying to judge if it would work with the system she’d already partially constructed back on red station, and sighed. He might understand it all, but that didn’t mean he was as interested in it as she was. Vegeta’s concerns lay with finishing the device at a base enough level that it would not explode with him in it. The machine’s particular composition did not penetrate the sphere of important things to think about in Vegeta’s head. Bulma supposed she should feel honoured that he trusted her enough to not accidentally kill him with her inventions, but at the moment she was feeling more irritated at her inability to scrounge. Who knew what was in these piles? Maybe she’d find something for one of her other projects, if only the brutes would let her look!

                Bulma was so distracted by her chain of thoughts, and by the heavy part in her hands that she failed to notice the sudden tension that had come over her companions, nor the way they turned and shifted, closing ranks. It was only when Vegeta grabbed her wrist and yanked her behind him that she noticed something was up. “Hey! What the hell?” She complained, dropping the valve to ground with a heavy clonk. “That would have broken my foot!” She tried to tug her arm out of his grip, but his fingers were like steel.

                “Hey,” Said an unfamiliar, nasal kind of voice. “Do you think he gives a shit?” Bulma looked up in surprise and stepped back quickly, not wanting to look at the thing that had addressed her.

                “Ewww,” she muttered into Vegeta’s ear, “what is with all the giant bug people in the universe? Isn’t one kind enough?” She asked, peeking out at the creature from over Vegeta’s shoulder. Bug, black market regeneration tank dealer, had looked like a giant cockroach, whereas this as-yet-nameless fellow was skinnier and lanky, more like the man-in-a-bug-suit type aliens from the B-movies of her youth. Antennae included, he was taller than Nappa.

                “Hey Vegeta, this guy seem familiar to you?” Nappa chuckled, though Vegeta didn’t respond. Radditz grinned and crouched into a battle stance while Gohan looked on, puzzled and nervous.

                “Seems familiar to me.” Radditz answered instead. “What was that planet’s name? Ar...Arlan...Arlis...”

                “Arlia?” Nappa grinned. “Kind of a shit hole, but remember we fought that big motherfucker?”

                “Oh, so you got a look at my people before slaughtering them all, did you?” The bug shrilled, and Bulma felt her stomach drop. On Red Station these were her allies, her friends, but out here...Bulma had not forgotten that the Saiyans were among Frieza’s most feared and hated warriors. Around them a curious crowd had begun to gather, and business at the surrounding stalls had all but stopped as proprietors and customers both turned to see what all the yelling was about.

                “Ten credits on the big green one.” Bulma heard someone say, as Vegeta finally let go of her arm and stepped forward. Nappa and Radditz dropped back a little and she was once more surrounded by her protective little living wall.

                “I’ll take that bet man,” said another voice, scornfully. “That’s a fuckin’ saiyan!” Bulma tried to edge away – she didn’t want to see this – but there was nowhere to go. To her back was the counter, covered high with momentarily abandoned purchases, and to her other three sides was saiyan bulk.

                “Gohan,” she tried for the most easily influenced of her three protectors, “what’s going on? Who is that guy?”

                “I’m not sure,” the child replied, turning his head to look up at her with sympathetic eyes. He knew what was going through her head right now, because it had gone through his many times in the first year or so of his residence with these men. “But it won’t end well, Bulma.”

                “Of course we saw them.” Vegeta was saying, his legs firmly planted on the ground as he glared up at the arlian towering several feet over his head. Anyone who knew Vegeta though, knew that this would not factor in the outcome of the battle; that legendary royal glare could make even the biggest giant feel about half a foot tall. “We saw them, we saved them from that hideous king of theirs and then,” Vegeta grinned, balled his fists together in front of his chest, and suddenly his fingers sprung open, his hands drifted apart like so much space debris, “pop.”

                “MONSTER!” The arlian shrieked, launching himself forward at Vegeta. Too quickly for most of the spectators to see, Vegeta stepped neatly aside, avoiding the bug-man’s attack while at the same time ploughing his own fist into his assailant’s stomach. To most of the crowd, Bulma included, the whole thing appeared a blur and ended with the two combatants standing utterly still, the arlian slouching while Vegeta’s bloody fist protruded from his back.

                “They called us heroes, you know.” Vegeta whispered as the arlian choked and gurgled, his last breaths clogged with blood. “Now that you’re about to see them all again, perhaps you could let them know how wrong they were.” He wrenched his arm from the hole he’d created and dropped the wheezing creature to the dirt at his feet.

                “Well that wasn’t much of a fight.” One of the men near Bulma had complained, and she whirled to see the grudging exchange of money, just before she lost control of her stomach muscles and heaved her breakfast up.  While she wiped her mouth, Vegeta stepped calmly up to the stall and finished making the purchase that had been interrupted. All around her, people were going back to their business and utterly ignoring the dead man in the street. Bulma knew that she was expected to do the same, but it wasn’t so easy to watch your boyfriend literally put his fist through someone’s chest cavity and then go back to whatever you were doing just moments ago.

                Finished with his purchase, Vegeta handed off the parcel of parts to Gohan and reached out with his clean arm to grab Bulma. She flinched and jerked her arm from his grip.  “Don’t...don’t touch me.” She said, shakily, grimacing as Vegeta recoiled as thought stung. She flinched, not sure what response to expect, but Vegeta simply took his hand back and stalked away. Radditz and Nappa followed, but Gohan waited for the few moments it took for her to gather her composure. The shaking subsided and she straightened up, straining to see the disappearing backs of the saiyans through the crowd.

                “Come on,” Gohan said, shifting the heavy package into one arm so he could take her hand with the other. “We have to go back to the ship now, or they’ll probably leave without us.”

                “Pfft, they can’t do that, Vegeta needs me.” Bulma scoffed and grinned unconvincingly down at Gohan. She was feeling unreasonably embarrassed at being the only one to barf after seeing such a grisly sight, even though she thought everyone else should be ashamed at their lack of feeling.

                “He really does, you know.” Gohan said quietly, and Bulma wasn’t sure if she’d been meant to hear it or not.

.

.

                Zarbon remembered all the time he’d spent wondering when Frieza was going to set foot in his private little torture chamber, and regretted it. The lizard stood before him now, silent and imperious, his black lips twisted into an ugly smile.

                “Tsk, tsk, look at you.” Frieza sneered, cocking his head to examine the grubby, blood encrusted form of his once cherished pet. “You’re filthy, Zarbon, and you stink. You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you?” He motioned to one of the minions that had followed him in. “Have him cleaned up.” Frieza said, turning away. “I want him back here in one hour, bound of course. And try to be gentle, will you? I want him all in one piece when I get back.”

                Because he didn’t have much of a choice – and because the temptation of cleanliness was overwhelming – Zarbon allowed himself to be led away from the cell and into the washrooms provided for those who were down here doing a job. The scent of chemical cleanser was heavy in the air, wafting up out of the pools with the steam, and it reminded him of the times he’d used these baths in his professional capacity, talking and sharing methods with the other bathers. He shivered and had he been a more modest man, he might have refused to get in. Vanity, however, ran strong in his veins.

 Uncuffed, Zarbon was allowed to undress himself and wade into the smallest pool alone, though his damaged wrist made him slow and clumsy. A few off duty soldiers laughed from their vantage points in the other pools as Zarbon eased his body below the surface, trying not to hiss as the hot, treated water entered various stinging cuts. Resolutely, he refused to look at the other men, no matter how loud their laughter, how vulgar their comments. These same men had once treated him with respect and admiration, and now had only come to see how very far he’d fallen.

                No, Zarbon thought as he reached for the soap, he hadn’t fallen at all. He’d jumped, knowing full well what would happen when he landed. It was no accident of fate or poor choices that had led him here and he knew that he’d have to keep that in mind if he was to hang on to his sanity. He’d chosen the path of revolution, chosen his punishment, and no matter what was done to him, he could not allow himself to ever regret it. Regret would only quicken the erosion of his mind.

                Zarbon took his time bathing, meticulously scrubbing out every crack and crevice as though there were not six men with guns surrounding his pool, and any number of hecklers beyond. He really was filthy, which brought again the question of just how long he’d been imprisoned. Not that it mattered, he supposed; it wasn’t like he really had a life to get back to, nor family and friends who might be worried about him. There were probably some contacts in the resistance who would notice that he’d gone missing, but they’d probably not give it another thought – people went missing all the time, never to be heard from again. They’d assume he’d either died or gone into hiding, and while a few might mourn the loss of his information, they’d move on, find other sources.

                “Much better,” Frieza pronounced later, after Zarbon had been returned to his original chambers and shackled once more. They’d gone up a cuff size or two on his swollen wrist and padded the metal with fabric so it no longer cut into his skin, and he was grateful for the small comfort it offered. “How are you feeling Zarbon? Comfortable?” Frieza asked, stepping closer to his prisoner. “I see I’ll have to have a medic down to check on that wrist, won’t I?” He reached out and tapped the body part in question, causing Zarbon to wince and tear up a little, though he did not give the satisfaction of crying out. “My,” he poked again, “poor,” this time harder, “pet,” Frieza finished, jabbing his fingernail deeply into the swollen flesh, not letting up until Zarbon moaned in pain. Frieza stepped back, smiling a gruesome little smile. “What a sweet sound. Do you know, Zarbon, I miss hearing that sound?”

                “Fuck you.” Zarbon hissed through clenched teeth as he waited for the throbbing in his wrist to subside. He was surprised to find himself shaking and nauseous, and desperately wished that he could be braver.

                Frieza laughed lightly. “I rather think it will be the other way around.” He said, turning toward a table upon which various instruments of torture had been laid out while Zarbon was bathing. White fingers danced nimbly over sharp blades and studded clubs until he found what he was looking for. He turned, holding up the hairbrush, and Zarbon moaned, shaking his head. “Do you remember the first time I brushed your hair for you?” Frieza asked, stepping closer. His fingers caressed the handle, gripping it lovingly. He reached out and Zarbon lunged back as far as his chains would allow, thrashing and kicking so that Frieza could not come closer. “Tie him up,” snapped the tyrant to a pair of waiting subordinates, “unless of course you’d like me to call the druggist?” Frieza cackled, looking into the struggling prisoner’s eyes as he was hefted up and buckled securely onto a table. “How would you like that, pet? A little calming mix to weigh down your arms and legs, to slow down your heart till you have no strength to struggle...” Their job done, the minions stepped back. “Remember how we laughed when we discovered that Vegeta had immunized himself to the effects of my anaesthetics? And we wondered and wondered how we could punish him, but what punishment could be worse to a saiyan than to lose control of his own body?” Frieza smiled, almost sentimentally. “ Remember when we imagined that little fool, drugged and drooling every night with that imbecile Nappa to watch over him? ” Frieza snickered, leaning down so that his face was mere inches from Zarbon’s. “Bet you’re not laughing now, are you?”

                “Don’t...” Zarbon pleaded as he felt the first slide of the brush through his hair, closely followed by long-nailed fingers. He wriggled in his bonds, but he was strapped too tightly down to do much of anything. Not this, anything but this. “Give me pain instead.”

                “Oh? But this used to be your favourite thing, didn’t it?” Frieza ran the brush through Zarbon’s hair again, and though he didn’t want it to, his whole scalp began to tingle with the familiar, private pleasure he’d once enjoyed. “And your hair is just so tangled from your bath, you simply must let me fix it.” Frieza continued, his voice soft and sweet. Zarbon’s eyes began to drift shut, his body enjoying the soothing sensation even as his mind railed against this perversion of his own private ritual. He began to wonder if Frieza had, in fact, managed to drug him without his awareness.

                “Stop...” He insisted, and was ashamed at the lack of conviction in his own voice. “This is...I don’t want this.” He insisted, even as he felt his limbs relaxing, the calm of long ago moments alone in his room seeping into his muscles. “Ungh...” He moaned as the bristles scraped his scalp and Frieza’s hand moved down, his smooth, white palm caressing Zarbon’s shoulder, the bare skin of his chest. Zarbon hissed, feeling his body begin to respond, despite his anger and disgust, in the way he had trained it to do over so many years of servitude.

                “Go.” Frieza commanded his two subordinates to leave with a wave of his hand. “And don’t come back in here unless I call you.” He stood up, back to the door, and dropped the brush, his hand tangling in Zarbon’s hair while the other trailed down, down, down. “Not so indifferent to me, are you?” He sneered, wrapping his fingers around the bulge in his captive’s pants.

                “Go to hell.” Zarbon rasped fiercely, refusing to look at the monster as he willed his erection to subside. He felt sick to his stomach and deeply ashamed of his body’s reaction, and yet unable to stop it. He’d been willing himself stiff for so many years, it had become his natural response to the master’s touch. He didn’t want the ugly little tyrant, didn’t want those sickly cold hands on him, didn’t want the black lips that taunted him with their ugly sneer, and yet he was hard and gasping, holding back groans with every stroke until his hips were arching up off the slab. “Nng...no.” He pleaded, not with Frieza but with his own body, with some higher power, _any_ higher power, as he felt the release building within himself. He willed it away but to no avail. It came, _he came_ , accompanied by Frieza’s soft laughter.

                “Oh, pet.” Frieza tutted, bringing slick fingers to his mouth. “When will you learn that every bit of you is mine? I control you. No matter what you do and where you go, I will _always_ control you.” Zarbon looked away, unable to see clearly as water blurred his vision. He felt hollow, nauseas, absolutely disgusted with himself. “I’m going to leave you here,” Frieza squeezed Zarbon’s arm, “so you can think about that.”

                Moments later, Zarbon was alone again with only his thoughts for company. Certain that there was no one to see him, he let the tears flood from his eyes. He was chilly, shirtless, with a puddle of shame and semen going cold on his belly, and a flaccid cock hanging dejectedly off to one side. Frieza hadn’t even had the courtesy to tuck him back in and bound as he was, he certainly couldn’t do it for himself.  

                “Fuck!” Zarbon sobbed, thrashing against the restraints. He was completely and totally doomed, and he knew it. “FUCK!”

.

.

                Bulma followed Gohan, her breathing laboured as she struggled to keep up with the boy. She was trembling and her back felt slick with nervous sweat. Only when they’d once again caught sight of the other saiyans did Gohan slow his pace a little, fearful as he was that they’d be left behind. Bulma snorted; unlike the child in front of her, she knew that Vegeta would never do such a thing...though at the moment, she wasn’t so sure if she’d mind it. She swallowed and the sour tang of vomit was still thick on her tongue.

                Vegeta was a killer; she’d known it from the beginning. For three years he’d lived in her nightmares alongside Frieza’s other high ranking warriors; the famed monsters of the empire whose faces and names were widely used to invoke terror amongst the populace. And then she’d met him and her whole perception of him had changed, split into the Vegeta that she knew and the Vegeta that the rest of the universe knew. She’d thought of the latter as a sort of mask that he put on, but what if the reverse was true? What if the thoughtless killing machine was the real Vegeta, and the one who held her at night simply a socially acceptable ruse?

                Bulma felt her stomach curdle and knew that if she hadn’t done so already, she’d be ducking behind a stall to empty the contents of her belly. What did it make her, that she’d allowed such a man into her bed, into her heart? Was she so selfish, so shallow that she could overlook the dark deeds of a mass murderer for the presence of his hard pecs and throbbing cock? Too many questions, no answers. None of that had seemed important before she’d seen Vegeta kill someone with her own eyes, saw the blood, quite literally, on his hands, his arms, a smear on his cheek...she shivered again, thinking about how no one had even batted an eye. How long would she survive on her own in a place like this?

                “Bulma, hurry up!” Gohan’s voice urged her from a few feet ahead and she blinked in surprise. She didn’t even realize that she’d stopped moving. She scurried forward, reaching out to take Gohan’s hand. He looked up at her in shock, startled by her clammy, shaking grip.

                “Don’t let go, okay? I don’t want to get lost here.” She smiled shakily at him, and Gohan saw for the first time how very pale she was, how she shone with a light sheen of sweat; it occurred to him that she’d likely never seen anyone killed that way before and that she might be in shock.

                “Of course.” He smiled back and squeezed her hand, wondering what thoughts must be going through her mind. “Bulma,” he said softly, tugging her down so that he could whisper in her ear, “I’ll be around if you’d like to...” he paused, a blush staining his cheeks, “...you know, talk. I know I’m just a kid, but I understand more than you probably think I do,” he added, seeing the look of discomfort that passed her features. He knew that all of the humans still thought of him as an ignorant child, but he’d seen a lot in his short years that they didn’t acknowledge. That was one of the things he liked best about the saiyans; they didn’t censor themselves out of deference to his age...well, Radditz did sometimes, but only when he remembered to think about it, which was almost never. Besides that, Radditz’s ‘censored’ version was really just like the blurring of nudity on a tv show; maybe you couldn’t see the parts, but you still knew what was going on.

                “Gohan...how many people have you killed?” Bulma asked suddenly. “I’m sorry, to just blurt something out like that...Jeez. I mean, I try to reconcile the Vegeta I know with the one that...that...ugh. And I think of you and I don’t think you’re a bad person, but surely you’ve...”

                “I don’t keep count.” Gohan said softly, and the way he spoke with such seriousness surprised her, made her wonder if he was really only the child he appeared to be. “And if Vegeta ever did, I’m sure the number has become too high to fathom.”

                “Don’t tell me things like that.” Bulma muttered, but she took a deep breath and stood up straight, pulling herself together before she allowed Gohan to lead her back to the ship and the confrontation that would await her there. Luckily, she knew that between loading their purchases, running a systems check, and getting their little ship on its way back to Red, there would be a nice chunk of time in which to compose herself.

.

                Vegeta watched Bulma bolt from the command deck as soon as the ship had stabilized itself for travel. Ordinarily he’d just have put her haste down to enthusiasm for her project and the fact that she had a whole cargo bay of new parts to play with, but the uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. Bulma had been positively frosty since the little incident at the market. She hadn’t even attempted to hold his hand on the way back to the ship – not that he would have let her anyway, but up until that point she’d been trying hard. Hell, she hadn’t even wanted to walk near him! And once inside, he’d casually put his hand on the small of her back, only to have her flinch and run like a scared little animal.

                “You three, to the training deck. Be warmed up by the time I get there.” Vegeta said, watching through narrowed eyes as his three subordinates saluted, crossing the right arm over the chest to make a fist over the heart, and marched out. He could see the nervous looks that passed between them and restrained the urge to boot Radditz – simply because he was last in line – in the ass as he walked out the door. Fuckers, he thought, irritated at their presumption. In the days before Blue’s arrival into his life, would they have ever dared to share such looks in his presence?

                “He’s pissed.” Vegeta heard Radditz mutter, and he really wished he had given into his impulse just a moment ago. No matter, he decided as he climbed the ladder up and toward the living quarters and Bulma’s makeshift workspace. He paused in the doorway, expecting to see her lost in some detail, as usual. Instead she was sitting perfectly still, doubled over with her head in her hands. For some reason, he felt irritation bubbling up inside himself.

                “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He sneered, stepping into the room. Bulma’s head snapped up and she swiped angrily at her wet cheeks, brushing the hair back out of her face at the same time.

                “Don’t talk to me like that.” She snapped, her eyes blazing with emotion, cheeks an angry red. “And you know damn well what’s wrong!”

                “Do I?” Vegeta asked, cocking his head as he took in the unusual pallor of her skin and the awkwardly closed in way she sat. Bulma looked away, as though unable to look at him, and the irritation in his core turned into white hot anger. He felt the sudden urge to grab her and shake her, to pin her against the wall where she had no choice but to look him in the eye. Wisely, he remained where he was.

                “You didn’t have to kill him like that.” Bulma exhaled a shaky breath.

                “Oh? And who are you to judge who I need to kill?” Vegeta mocked her, “Or is it just because you saw it this time? Are you forgetting the research facility? Even barring that, you’ve certainly heard the stories that float about the universe. Did you think they were fake?” He laughed. “The fact is, he’d have ripped my heart out if I’d given him the chance.”

                “Was it on Frieza’s orders?” Bulma asked, ignoring his tone.

                “What?”

                “You destroyed his planet, right?” She spread her fisted hands apart, just as he had done in illustration to the insectoid creature. “Pop, yeah? So did Frieza command you to do it?” She met his eyes this time, and as he stared her down, she suddenly knew that she would not like the answer.

                “No.” Vegeta said, and it was the most powerful syllable she’d ever heard in her life. “Does that upset you?”

                “Why?” She asked, ignoring his question. He damn well knew the answer to that one.

                “We were on our way to Earth to retrieve Kakarott, but Frieza’s ships beat us there.” Vegeta shrugged. “Call it grief, fury, whatever you want. We went to Arlia and bathed ourselves in the blood of their tyrant king.” He paused and chuckled, but it was a dark, sardonic sound. “They praised us in the streets, called us their heroes. They were...presumptuous.”

                “So you _killed_ them for it?” Bulma shrieked, unable to believe what was coming out of his mouth. “You destroyed their planet on a cruel whim, destroyed Arlia as Frieza destroyed your home?”

                “They would have been enslaved before long anyway.” Vegeta shrugged, his tone uncaring. “They died free, happily celebrating in the streets. Isn’t that what you weak races are always going on about? Dying a good death?”

                “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Bulma gasped, staring up at him with horrified eyes. She’d known he was a killer all along – how could she not? – but she’d somehow managed to put it from her mind, to pretend like he’d be wracked with guilt inside. Like that would make it okay...

                “Nothing is wrong with _me_ , Bulma.” Vegeta spat. “Look around you, think about it. You’re the only one with a problem here. Did you see anyone else barfing their guts up in the market?”

                “Don’t you dare...”

                “Your problem is that you’ve painted a pretty, idyllic little picture of Earth and you try to apply your ridiculous set of morals to everything you come across!”

                “Well _your_ problem is that you’re not bothered a damn bit by the fact that you shoved your _arm_ through someone’s chest cavity!” Bulma interrupted, jumping up from her seat.

                “Feh.” Vegeta snorted. “I see. So I can kill all I want, and so long as I show you some remorse, that makes it fine?” He laughed bitterly and she wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I kill, Bulma. When the situation requires me to take a life in order to protect my own, or that of one of mine,” he guestured vaguely around them and Bulma guessed that he meant the other saiyans, perhaps even her, “then I will do so without remorse.”

                “You didn’t have to blow up Arlia. How was that saving anyone?”

                Vegeta shrugged, and looked her in the eye. “I do not need to justify my actions to you, nor anyone else. You knew what I was before we ever met, and only now it’s become a problem? I can kill millions and so long as you don’t have to watch, it’s fine?” He prodded. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. The fact is that I’m a killer and a murderer. I’m not like your little friends and I never will be. I’ve slaughtered more people than you can imagine, and I’ll continue to do so as long as I see fit. Now you can deal with it, or you can get the fuck out of my life.” With that, the saiyan prince turned on his heel and marched from the room, leaving her alone to deal with the second shock of the day.

                Bulma sat slowly back down, pulling her feet up onto the chair as she did so. Knowing that someone was a killer and seeing them do it were two completely different things, and she hadn’t really prepared herself to deal with the discrepancy. More than that, however, it was Vegeta’s callous attitude that really threw her. All along, she’d been imagining that he’d only kill when ordered, or when he had to, and that he’d stay up late at night torturing himself with the details of such things. She’d been casting him in the role of some tragic sort of hero, when in reality he turned out the lights and went to sleep at night, as easy as anyone else. She imagined the power it must take to blow up a planet and shuddered, thinking of it resting dormant inside of Vegeta.

                Bulma Briefs was sleeping with a murderer with billions of deaths to his name. Her boyfriend, for lack of a better term, was worse, in terms of numbers at least, than any killer in all of Earth’s history, and she’d put it all out of her mind with an ease that disturbed her deeply. What did that make her, exactly?

                Then again, that was her MO, wasn’t it? Sexy jerk with a heart of gold. Before coming over to the side of good, Yamcha had been a desert bandit; he’d robbed and probably hurt countless people, and yet she’d put that out of her mind with hardly a care. He’d even tried to rob her, and probably would have been successful if not for his fear of pretty girls, and she’d let him off the hook so easily. Had Yamcha been unattractive, she knew she’d have written him off completely and now she was doing the same thing with Vegeta, except Vegeta would never come over to her way of thinking. Unlike her former beau, she wouldn’t be able to beat the concept of peace and forgiveness into the saiyan prince, and he was extremely unlikely to adopt it of his own accord. All along she’d been thinking she could change him, fix him, because if he was fighting with their cause there must be a shred of good in him that could one day grow to overshadow the evil, but she wasn’t so sure of that now. Vegeta was a violent, dangerous, self-obsessed man, and she no longer felt confident that beneath all of that was a good and kind soul.

And she didn’t know if she was okay with that.

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That’s it for this time folks. Not exactly a happy chapter, but sort of an important one nonetheless, I suppose. Please consider clicking that review  button – I’d love to hear some opinions.

 


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Two weeks to the day, I think? Not so bad a wait, for once. :D This chapter is not work safe!

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PRESENT DAY

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                Vegeta rolled out of bed, resolutely refusing to look at the empty space against the wall. It was several days since Bulma had moved her mess from his room and taken up residence on the couch in the common room, and he didn’t like to admit it but he knew her absence was getting to him. He hadn’t been sleeping all that well and while he was eating properly, it was only because he knew he must; he’d suffered the wasting before and had no desire to do so again. Vegeta knew he had to stay in control of himself and his body, for the sake of his men, his reputation, and his sanity. It wouldn’t do for him to start moping around like a brat after his first rejection; he had more dignity than that.

The thing was, it really sucked. Bulma was an adult, yet she stubbornly held the foolish ideals of a child. She thought that with enough work, she could turn the universe completely around, but Vegeta knew better. Words like ‘peace’ and ‘harmony’ were bandied about with as little care as dust in the wind; everyone who wanted to be seen as good was naturally in favour, but the moment it came time to sacrifice, all the selfish desire that characterized the sentient animal would come to the fore. Bulma acted as though if she could simply get her point across, all the drug lords, pimps, and tyrants of the universe would suddenly realize that their power and money was meaningless in the face of true harmony.

                Fat fucking chance.

                Shaking his head, Vegeta turned on the shower and cranked the heat up high before undressing. By the time he’d finished his morning piss and flushed, steam was clouding the small private bathroom. Not normally one to indulge, Vegeta took his time in the shower. He’d never thought of it as relaxing before, not until Bulma had said something about it, but the feeling of hot, hot water rushing over him was quite soothing to his mind as well as his muscles. He couldn’t hear anything but the water spraying from the showerhead and dripping onto the floor. No yelling, no breathing, no creak and groan of a ship under the pressure...just water.

                It couldn’t last long, of course. Nothing pleasurable ever did. Vegeta had scheduled an early morning training session with his men, and it wouldn’t do for him to be late. Regretfully, he stepped out from the stall and grabbed a towel, feeling his sense of peace evaporate along with the water on his skin. By the time he’d dressed and gotten to the training deck, he was in a foul mood and his waiting comrades were dreading the end of their warm-up period. They’d all come to know the signs preceding a major tantrum and they could feel that this one was going to be a doozy. No one spoke as they stood around stretching, not even Radditz, who could always be counted on to diffuse a tense situation with an off kilter comment. They hardly even dared to look at each other, each reflecting gratefully on one fact; their ship was equipped with two state of the art regeneration tanks. When they got slammed, they wouldn’t be down for too long. It was a comforting thought.

                Surprisingly enough, the training match didn’t start with Vegeta kicking someone in the face – usually Nappa, when he was this pissed. On the contrary, it started quite calmly, quite civilly, which naturally set the trio of underlings even more on edge. Vegeta was like a bomb, quietly ticking away and they couldn’t read the timer. He’d _been_ ticking for days, and they all knew why, which probably made it even worse because Vegeta surely would have preferred if that little mess had been kept secret. Their presence added shame and embarrassment to his irritation.

                Vegeta felt the eyes of his men, covertly watching him though they tried not to show it. He could feel their apprehension, their fear of what was to come, and most infuriating of all, their concern for him. He felt like a child, as he had immediately after the destruction of Vegetasei when Nappa had monitored his every move, hovered and clucked over him as a brood female with her newborn cub, as though he might self-destruct at any moment. Well, he hadn’t as a child, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let a woman like Bulma take him down, he thought, as dodged a punch from Radditz. He felt Nappa gripping his shoulder from behind, the big man probably intending to pull him off balance, but Vegeta was too quick, grabbing his old mentor’s hand and yanking him off his feet, up into the air to slam into the ground. Nappa landed with a thump, wheezing as the wind was knocked out of him, and Vegeta turned his attentions to the other two while the old fart tried to catch his breath.

                Damn Bulma, damn that foolish woman, Vegeta seethed, hardly paying attention as he knocked away the uncle and nephew team. “What’s wrong with you today?” He snarled at them, turning his fury also to Nappa, who’d hauled himself up from the floor and was looking for an opening. “You’re weaker than Kakarott, the three of you together!” He spat, hoping to provoke anger in the absent saiyan’s relatives at least, anything to share the rage and misery that roiled within him. He wanted everyone to feel the same hurt and helplessness that engulfed him. His tactic worked and the bristling pair launched themselves to action, throwing everything of themselves at him in the hopes that they could at least tire him out quickly and end their own suffering. Nappa hung back a little, watching with keen eyes as the prince moved, as quick and light on his feet as though he weighed no more than little Gohan, who was currently doing his best to land a hit and not getting even close. Nappa frowned, eyebrows drawing low as he thought about what was happening in the air above him.

                Something was different, Vegeta realized very quickly as he easily evaded the attacks of his opponents. He felt faster, stronger, lighter than ever, and yet at the same time, as though he was sick to his stomach, which lurched and burned with every move. A bubbling little pit of something, the dark place within him was cracking open again, feeding his body with power that he could not handle. Bile rose to his throat as he spun round, deftly deflecting attacks from three sides and he swallowed it back, ignoring the fiery sting in his throat and the burn at the back of his nose. He lashed out, imbued with the power of his pain, and kicked Radditz straight in the face. The other saiyan began to fall, but Vegeta grabbed hold of his hair and yanked, instead throwing Radditz straight upward to slam into the ceiling. The crash of flesh against metal rang in Vegeta’s ears, reverberating through his body and making his blood hum. Power surged and he laughed at the sensation, knowing instinctively that it was different from last time he’d opened up the abyss. There was more control this time and he was less a puppet to the forces that blew through him, though he could tell he was not yet their master.

                The thought irritated him further, and more of the black rage power bubbled out from the crack between his sane mind and whatever lived within him. He could not control this power, nor Bulma, nor even his own men, who shot each other slanted glances behind his back. He had no planet, no people, no kingdom to rule. Was there anything left in his life that he had some power over? He would gain control of the power, his men would once again tremble with his every word, he would kill Frieza and gain back all that he had lost, but Bulma...Bulma was the worst. He’d begun to feel he didn’t need to control her, that she would stay by him of her own accord, even though he’d never thought of it himself in such clear terms. All he knew was the anger that ensconced him at Bulma’s rejection, at the sight of his cold, empty bed every night, and her mess all gone from his room. His heart jumped and a fresh surge of power flowed through his veins, its sudden force startling him enough that he allowed a hit from Gohan to make it through his defences. He snarled and kicked back, knocking the boy into the wall. He thrust out his hand as though to blast the boy, remembering at the last minute to curb himself – he did not feel confident that the ship’s walls would stand up to the strength that was currently hissing through him. In fact, with every moment and every subsequent thought of Bulma, more came pouring out and he wasn’t so sure _he_ could handle it anymore.

                With effort, he pulled the ki back from his hand, through his arm and into his body once more, felt it shoot through his heart as though he’d been stabbed. The shock of it vibrated through his veins, burning him from the inside out. He clutched at himself, too absorbed in the feeling to see that the other three had backed off and were watching him with wary eyes.

                “It’s the same.” Gohan whispered in awe as he pressed himself against the wall he’d flown into, as though with enough effort he could simply push through to the other side. “It’s the same as that time...” He could feel panic building within him as he recalled the black sky, the lightning-bright form of the prince illuminated against it as he fought for control on that lonely little rock planet. If Vegeta were to release that power here on the ship, they were all doomed.

                “Back off!” Nappa warned Radditz, who had cautiously approached the prince’s still form. “Vegeta!” He yelled, “You have to control it!”

                “He’s going to blow!” Gohan insisted, hauling himself up and dashing to where Nappa stood, closest to the hatch between floors. “He’ll take the whole ship out!” He grabbed Radditz’s hand along the way, dragging his uncle to the relative safety of Nappa’s power level. Perhaps if they all shielded together, they’d survive the blast, but the ship itself was unlikely to. “Oh no, Bulma’s upstairs on the top level! She doesn’t know!” He added, still clutching at Radditz’s fingers.

                “CONTROL YOURSELF!” Nappa bellowed, unconcerned with the conversation that was taking place next to him. He took two quick steps toward the prince, who had sunk to his knees, but he went no further. Even two steps closer to that much uncontrolled power was painful.

                “What the fuck was that?” Radditz gasped, not quite believing his eyes as a ripple of gold seemed to pass through Vegeta’s hair, originating at the bottom of his widow’s peak and disappearing at the tips of his spiky mane. “Great Gods...” he whispered. “Is that...” he trailed off at Gohan’s shout.

                “Look, there it is again!” He stuck his arm straight out, pointing as the shockwave of colour ran once more through Vegeta’s hair only to disappear as it had before.

                “Hold on to yourself, Vegeta.” Nappa implored, and when the prince looked up they could see the flickering colour of his eyes, from deepest black to clearest blue. “You have to control yourself, or you’ll kill us all.” He braved a step closer. “Bulma is on the ship. You’ll kill us all.”

                “Bulma.” Vegeta gasped, clutching at his hair with gloved fingers as he struggled to get himself under control. The power was his, he was on the cusp, but it was too much for him, too much for the ship that held them all. He felt his skin sizzling, just as it had that time he’d nearly killed himself, but he couldn’t let it out this time, couldn’t risk damage to the ship. He had to pull it back in, stuff it back into that black place in his belly, or he’d rupture the ship and Bulma would die. That was all there was in his mind, the fact that if he failed, Bulma would be sucked, screaming, into the black, cold void of space and she would die hating him. “Uhnn,” he grunted, yanking his hands from his hair to plant them on the floor as golden energy danced and crackled around him. Gohan began to cry, silent tears leaking from his eyes as he watched Vegeta’s face contort with effort, eyes closed so they could no longer see if his eyes had stopped flickering as his hair had.

                “Come on...concentrate.” Nappa muttered, still holding his position even as wave after wave of energy boomed out from the prince. The walls shook with each one, but they were lessening in intensity. The flickering golden aura was fading too, but with every second they could see Vegeta’s body trembling progressively harder until he was convulsing on the floor, his face contorted with pain as the energy gathered and crackled within his flesh. His veins bulged and his skin bubbled in waves as the power coursed from his extremities back to his core and into the cracked place within.

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                Up on the residential deck, Bulma screamed as she felt the ship shudder and shake, the parts she had been working on clanking to the floor as the table bounced and jumped with each boom. Small stacks of notes crashed to the floor, scattering about the room. Even without the ability to sense ki, she could feel the electricity crackling up from the training deck that made her hair stand on end and her heart race. She heard the screaming from downstairs, Nappa’s gruff bark commanding Vegeta to control himself, and felt panic jolt down her spine. “Oh no,” she moaned, “no, no no. Vegeta, be okay!” Bulma raced from the room, uncaring of the absolute mess she left behind her. Something was wrong with Vegeta, and suddenly that was all that was in her head. He’d nearly killed himself once; what if he succeeded this time? She was panicking at the thought, close to hyperventilating, and dearly regretting the last few days in which she’d spurned him completely. What if he died, thinking that she hated him, when it was really the opposite? Oh gods, it was so much the opposite that it wasn’t even funny. Her heart absolutely ached with fear for him.

                The ship around her creaked and groaned ominously but she didn’t care, hardly even noticed in fact. She just had to get to Vegeta, and that was the only thing that was important to her. Eyes streaming with tears and lungs screaming for breath, she flew down the hall as fast as her legs could carry her and took the ladder down to the next deck two rungs at a time. She ran into the saiyans just as they emerged from the lower deck, Nappa hauling Vegeta up through the hatch by his armpits as Radditz and Gohan pushed from below. None of them said anything to her, and she didn’t ask any questions as she followed them to the infirmary that was housed behind the control room, too afraid that she might burst into sobs if she tried to talk. 

                Vegeta was alive. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, and though he looked a little crispy in spots, she knew that the regeneration tanks on board were top of the line models and she’d tuned them up herself one boring afternoon while the saiyans trained away below her feet. The experience had shaken her, but he’d be back to his old self in no time. His old self, she reflected as she watched Nappa set him in the tank, the man that she’d been so unsure of just days ago. The man who’d consumed her thoughts when the possibility of her own imminent death should have been at the fore. Bulma let out a sob as the Nappa hooked the breathing mask to Vegeta’s face and stepped back to allow the tank to close. None of them looked at her, though she did see Gohan’s shoulders tense a little bit as they all saluted their prince.

                “It’s going to be okay, Bulma.” Gohan paused beside her as Nappa and Radditz filed out of the small infirmary. Nappa shot her a dark look as he passed and she nodded. She wouldn’t make the same mistake she had last time. “It’s going to be...” the child paused, caught between sympathy, uncertainty, and a sense of excited wonder, “he...he became something else, something amazing even though it only lasted a moment before he lost control again.” Bulma looked down at Gohan and saw that he was shaking, a head to toe vibration as though every nerve in his body was firing on overtime.

                “Gohan!” It was Radditz, leaning back in, one arm braced heavily on the doorframe as he waited. Catching the boy’s eye, he jerked his head back. “C’mon.” With an apologetic shrug and a grimace, Gohan followed his uncle out into the hallway without another word, leaving Bulma to contemplate his cryptic words.      

                “Super Saiyan.” The phrase sprang unbidden to her lips and she marvelled at the possibility of it as she settled into the infirmary’s only chair. Had he really done it, she wondered as she studied his battered body, blue tinted by the regenerative fluids. Bulma cocked her head to one side, taking him in. The damage was not nearly half as bad as it had been the time he’d shown up on Red Station, though the feeling of panic that trilled within her was so much stronger today. He’d been a stranger then, and a threat, and even the knowledge that he was Vengeance had not completely eased her frazzled nerves. He looked the same, she thought. Aside from the bruises and the crusty look about him, he appeared no different than he had that morning. Somehow, she’d expected something sweeping and drastic, as though some mark from above would suddenly appear on his skin, demarcating the chosen one, the higher power of the Super Saiyan. But then again, she reflected, Gohan said he’d lost control of it and from the pattern of the scorch marks on his skin – most notably his charred palms – she surmised that this was not the first time. Vegeta had been on the cusp of this legendary power twice now, and both times it had nearly killed him. Bulma had the sudden and paralyzing though that success might mean death for him. What if the super saiyan was just a destructive ball of energy, destined to obliterate both himself and his enemies in the process of ascension? Was that why the transformation was so rare, so surrounded in mystery?  Was it possible that there was some genetic predisposition, some kind of wall to prevent that kind of power ever being unleashed unless some great need preceded it? Was it that those with enough strength and ability to reach those heights simply ended up killing themselves before they could procreate and pass the ability along? The thought made her shiver, and she scooted her chair a little closer to the tank.

Vegeta was unconscious and safely ensconced within the healing bubble so there was really no need for her presence, but the thought of leaving his prone form twisted in her guts like a knife. So that was that. The second the ship had begun to rumble, she’d felt a terrible bolt of fear for him, for his welfare and safety, and she knew with startling clarity that she loved him more than anything. Despite all that he’d done and all that he would do in the future, she knew where her heart was, and it scared her to admit it. It was all too fast, too strong, too crazy. It flew in the very faces of reason and logic but there it was; stark and true. In her own way, she was bound to him.

Sick with confusion and crashing adrenaline levels, Bulma got up from her chair and hoisted herself onto the padded examination table, where she lay down and curled up on her side, still facing the regeneration tank and its precious occupant. Her whirring mind calmed as she lay there looking at his peaceful face, serene but for the mottled skin and the dark, dark circles beneath his eyes. Gradually she fell asleep, taking comfort in the fact that when she woke, Vegeta would be that much closer to healed.

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Goku lay awake in bed, Chichi snoring softly beside him. They were not touching; they had not really touched at all since Goku had taken up residence in his wife’s room. Certainly, they hugged sometimes and every so often Chichi would peck him on the cheek good morning or good night, but Goku longed for more than that. He desperately wanted to grab her up in his arms, to bury his face in her neck and feel her soft, sweet body pressing against his own. He wanted her naked and writhing beneath him, her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes and pink mouth all professing her desire for him. In truth, things between them were so strained and so awkward that Goku wondered if he would ever make love to his wife again. He’d tried, of course...what man wouldn’t? But every time he advanced, she seemed to shy away, or she’d pat him on the head like a dog seeking attention and he’d feel himself wither with it.

Heaving a deep sigh, Goku tried to remember if it had been this way before Earth’s destruction and his subsequent imprisonment. He’d spent so much of that three year gap reminiscing and fantasizing that he wasn’t really certain anymore what was reality and what was his own fevered wishing. Had he so romanticized their marriage that he could no longer comprehend the reality of what they’d shared?

Flat on his back, Goku looked sidelong at his wife from the corner of his eyes, somehow fearing he might wake her if he turned his head to look at her properly. He sighed again, confused. Chichi was just as he remembered her; maybe a little harder around the edges, but still utterly recognizable. Physically, she hadn’t changed much. A few telltale streaks of silver shot through her silky, black hair – stress, he wondered, or genetics? – and her skin had become pale in the artificial light of the space station, but her smile was the very image of the one within his memory and her curves were still perfectly matched to his for snuggling...if only he could work up the nerve.

Gods, had he always been this pathetic? Had he always feared his wife, the potential of her rejection? Goku recalled his wedding night, remembered his confusion and naiveté as his blushing, stammering bride was forced to explain the principles of human mating, and felt deeply embarrassed for the young man he’d been. He remembered, also, the jolt of hot understanding that had rocketed through his body at the sight of her, all sweet, rosy curves in her wedding night attire. He’d felt, for the first time in his life that he could recall, a little bit out of control. Looking at Chichi now, with her hair all pulled back into a messy knot on the top of her head, mouth half open, a shapeless flannel nightgown covering her body from neck to ankles, he was surprised to feel the blood stir within his veins. Three long years since he’d known a loving touch, and suddenly it felt as though he’d die if he went a moment longer.

Tentatively, Goku reached out and poked his wife in the arm with one finger. She didn’t stir, so he jabbed her a little harder, forcing her body to rock ever so slightly. She grunted in her sleep and mumbled something incoherent before rolling away onto her side with her back to him and curling up like a little flannel clad shrimp. Undaunted, Goku scooted closer to his wife and snuggled in beside her, curling his body against hers and draping his arm across her ribcage. “Hey, Chi.” He said softly, and when she didn’t respond, he upped the volume a little. “You awake?”

“Hmmm, Goku?” She sighed, half asleep. “What do you want?” Chichi stretched and squirmed a little, plainly no longer accustomed to sleeping trapped within someone else’s arms. Her eyes sprang open in surprise as the answer to that question poked her square in the bottom. “Oh!” She squeaked, and Goku felt her body stiffen in his arms as though shocked. Lacking the words to say what he felt, Goku simply edged closer, his hips thrusting forward as though he could convey all the urgency and need he felt with one simple motion.

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled against her shoulder, suddenly feeling shy despite the fact that he was still pressed right up against her.

“G...Goku.” Chichi let out a strangled gasp as his palm trailed across her stomach and down to her hip, pulling her tight into him.

“You’re so soft.” He said, fingers squeezing plump curves through the flannel barrier. He nuzzled the back of her neck, hot breath tickling at her skin. She yelped when she felt him nip her, just below the hairline behind her right ear. “How are you so soft? Were you always?” His questing hand trailed down to squeeze her thigh, rucking up her nightgown by a few inches to bare the lowest portion of her calves.

“Goku!” Chichi yelped, “What’s gotten into you?” She tried vainly to tug her nightgown out of his grasp. “What are you doing?” She gasped as his warm hand found its way under the nightgown and up her leg. He stopped advancing right around her knee, but his fingers danced over her skin and sent shivers up through her body. More than three years since she’d been touched like this, and suddenly she was shy of her own husband, the man she’d yearned for all that time.

“Is it wrong, Chi?” Goku panted in her ear, “That I want you so much? If you only knew how much I dreamed of you, how much I thought of you...” He bent his head to kiss her neck, feeling the pulse race through her veins as she squirmed against him. “Don’t wiggle like that.” He murmured, squeezing her hip beneath the flannel. “You’re making it worse.” He pressed against her again and she felt a rush of heat as the hardness pressed into her backside.

“And you think I didn’t?” Chichi snapped, wrenching herself from his grasp and flipping herself over to face him. “You think I didn’t think of you every single night for three long years? Wishing and hoping that things had been different?” She choked off a frustrated sob. “I know you think I didn’t suffer, Goku, and maybe I didn’t as much as you, but you have no idea what my life has been like since...since then.”

“I...I’m sorry.”

“Well...” she faltered, not expecting his quick capitulation, “you should be.”

“I am,” he laughed softly, bringing a hand up to brush it down her cheek. “I’m sorry for everything. I know I haven’t always treated you the way I should have, but I want to make it better. I need to.” He bent his head and kissed her then, pulling her body close as her lips yielded to his own. She moaned, a soft, breathy sound as his hand stole once more to the hem of her nightgown, pushing the weighty fabric up and over her hips. Chichi made no protest as his hand slipped between her thighs to cup the soft flesh there, only a thin barrier between them. “Chi?” He asked softly, questioning fingers pushing down, and she nodded back, hoping he couldn’t see her blush in the dark. He was clumsy at first, fumbling her panties aside with hands gone shaky with nerves. He was out of practice, not all that confident he’d ever been good in the first place, but her soft moans drew him in, bolstered his confidence so that he did not have to think of what he was doing, second by second. _I remember this_ , his body seemed to say, as he felt the first touch of slick warmth on his skin. His limbs moved of their own accord, muscles working to some unspoken command as he rolled onto her after helping her to wriggle out from the absurdity she’d donned before bed. Her hands, so small and delicate, rested on his chest, fingers splayed out over his skin, and all they shyness and uncertainty in him disappeared, replaced by urgency and need like he’d never felt before.

Goku buried his face in her neck, panting hard, trying to get a grip on himself and the sudden, raging lust coursing through his brain, but her nearness made that impossible and the scent of her skin filled his nostrils as he breathed, making his head pound with each pump of blood through his cock.  “Goku...” Chichi moaned as he dragged his mouth across her skin, and he had the sudden urge to open his mouth and bite her, not hard enough to break the skin, not to hurt her, just to...to hold her there with him, to stop her squirming, like an animal. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to understand what she was saying, for she’d been panting something into his ear for the last minute, and hadn’t a clue what it was.

“Hush.” He insisted, sliding a hand over her body and down between them to grasp himself, he found his way to her entrance and slowly began to ease his way into her. Goku bit his bottom lip, letting his breath out in a hiss as he tried to control himself, tried to keep himself from simply ramming it all the way in like a brute. She was tight, so warm and snug around him, but he could see her face, wincing under the cover of darkness as he stretched her, settled inside and suddenly filled sensitive places that had not been touched in long, lonely years. In all the way, he stopped moving and waited for her to relax, feeling as though perhaps he should have waited longer, built her up more, despite the fact that she had plainly been ready for him. “Are you okay?” He asked, picking his weight up off her chest, bracing his arms against the bed on either side of her shoulders. He was trembling with the effort of controlling himself; he’d forgotten how good it felt to bury himself within her, forgotten how his troubles sank away into her flesh, how it was just the two of them together as if the rest of the universe had simply disappeared. With a heartfelt sigh, he bent his neck down, forehead pressing lightly against hers. His eyes were closed, but after a few seconds he opened them to find her staring upward, meeting his gaze. “This close,” he smiled, “it looks like you only have one giant eye.” Chichi snorted at his sudden joke, the tension in her body dissipating as she let out a brief spurt of giggles.

“Oh, Goku,” Chichi reached up and laid her palm on his cheek, “I did miss you.” She returned the smile, angling her head ever so slightly so that their lips met. She’d meant it to be a tender, chaste sort of peck, but the intensity of Goku’s reaction surprised her, as did her own response. With each passing second, each nip of his teeth and swipe of his tongue, she felt the need rise within her, found herself arching against him, her hands tangling in his hair as she crushed her mouth to his with bruising force. “Oh, Goku!” Chichi said again, though this time as a breathy sigh, heavy with passion. She wrapped her legs around his hips as he began to move within her, and clutched at his trembling shoulders, short-bitten nails driving into taut muscles. He grunted, moreso in surprise than in pain, as she broke the skin. Looking at her, with her head thrown back, eyes closed and body straining, he doubted that she even realized she’d done it. She was panting, her breath coming in short little gasps, and her cheeks were rosy with the exertion.

“ _Mine_ ,” he thought suddenly, fiercely, and he felt the piercing ache that he had when he’d seen her in Sixteen’s arms on the day of his return to the real world, except this time triumphant. He wanted to howl out his glory, like the victor in some vicious, bloody battle, to crow and preen and boast to anyone who would listen. It was an odd sensation, for Grandpa Gohan had raised him to believe in the virtues of modesty and humbleness, and he suddenly wondered if this was the Saiyan side of him.

 The startling thought was not explored, however, as his mind melted in a hot whirl of sensation.  Not confined simply to the feeling of her, tight and warm around him, he savoured the feeling of her skin gliding against his, the soft sounds she made, even the smell of their mingled sweat added to the heady mist of lust between them, so thick in the air and in his own head that he wondered if one could possibly become drunk on feeling alone. If anyone was there to ask him, he would have said most definitely, yes. No question.

Their coupling was quick, intense and desperate, though no less meaningful for the lack of time they’d taken. There would be time to explore each other later, to discover new quirks of the body, new marks and new scars, to find that old delights were no longer so craved. They had years ahead for tenderness and slow, languid lovemaking; tonight had been about proving that the spark – that strange and exciting passion they’d discovered on their wedding night – was still there. The force that had drawn them to each other and kept them together was still strong. The challenge would come in the morning, when they would be forced to look at each other in the light of day and think _“Yes, I can spend the rest of my life with you.”_ For the time being, they were content to lay in each other’s arms, silent and thinking muggy, tired thoughts in the dark.

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Bulma awoke to find Vegeta staring at her from across the room, his image slowly rippling with the constant motion of the viscous, syrupy liquid in which he was immersed. She blinked and sat up, self consciously patting at her hair and setting her t-shirt to rights. She wasn’t at all surprised that he was awake in there; she knew there were no anaesthetics running through the tank so there was nothing but his own pain to block him from consciousness, but it was a little unnerving nonetheless, considering the fact that she’d not spoken to him about anything beyond the gravity room for days on end. Add to that the fact that she had no idea what to say to him now about the recent revelations concerning her feelings for him, and she was completely tongue tied.

How do you tell someone, she wondered, that he could do just about anything – any horrible, terrible, unspeakable thing – and you would still love him, and yet at the same time impress upon him how important it is that he not do those things? She knew Vegeta, though she’d begun to realize that she did not really understand him so well, and she knew what he was capable of, what lengths he was willing to go to. She had no doubt in her mind that he would burn the universe to the ground, killing everyone within reach, even their closest friends, if it meant Frieza’s death. She also knew, with a sickening sense of certainty, that as long as she was left alive in the aftermath, she would always return to him. Bulma didn’t know what that made her, exactly, but she knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. All she could do was to minimize the damage so that she wouldn’t drive herself to madness with the guilt of it all.

Swallowing her reservations, Bulma hopped down from the infirmary bed and crossed the small room to stand before the tank. “Hey,” she said, “I know you can hear me in there. I’ve been doing some thinking and well...I guess I wanted to apologize.” She looked shyly away, heat rising to her cheeks as Vegeta’s eyes bored into her, made all the more intimidating and eerie by the aura of blue that surrounded him. “I reacted badly the other day. I...I know you’re a killer, Vegeta.” She forced herself to return his gaze. “I know you’ve done awful things and that you’ll continue to do awful things but I...” she cocked her head to the side and allowed the corner of her mouth to turn up in a small smile. “I’ll believe you if you tell me they’re necessary. And I’ll forgive you all of it, if you’ll promise to keep the killing to a minimum. If you avoid it, when you can.” She put one hand on the glass and leaned forward, willing him to understand her position. “Do we have a deal?”

Vegeta was still for a long time, staring at her through the glass barrier as though deep in thought, and she began to worry that he hadn’t understood after all, that she’d just poured out her heart  and it had come to him as liquid-garbled noise and nothing more. Then she watched as he closed his eyes, saw his chest expand slowly as he took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, she swore she could see the faint curve of his lips, smirking beneath the breathing mask. A flurry of bubbles rushed up as he moved, placing his hand against hers, through the glass, fingers splayed out to match her own.

It was a deal.

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That’s it for now, folks. Hope you liked it.


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Holy hell, 30 chapters? When I started this fic, I was thinking maybe 10 or 15...*cries*

In all seriousness though, I’ve had a blast writing this thing so far, and hope to continue with as much enthusiasm. I got some really lovely, thoughtful reviews this past chapter (and previous ones as well, of course) and while I try to reply to every signed review (some chapters more successfully than others), I’d also like to thank those of you whom I can’t privately contact. The support and encouragement has really meant a lot.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Ginyu smacked the scouter against the wall in frustration. It had been a dangerous gamble to bring it aboard knowing that if he was at all careless, one of the Nameks might find it and he’d be exposed, but he hadn’t been prepared for Guru’s communications block and hadn’t realized that the stupid thing would end up being not only a liability, but a completely useless one at that. To make himself feel better, and also to kill a bit of time, he’d been desperately trying to get the scouter up and operational again. Ginyu had never been great with technology though, and bashing it against the wall was just about the best idea he had. He’d flicked it on and off, stared uncomprehending at the settings menu, and jiggled some wires to no avail. He was well and truly boned.

                Sighing, Ginyu tucked the scouter back into his pocket and leaned back against the wall. He rolled his eyes skyward, watching the antennae on his forehead twitch and missing the majesty of his horns...well, his previous body’s horns, at least. It really was too bad he’d had to kill that body after he’d stuck Nail in it. Couldn’t have that interfering Namek sticking his nose into things; his position among the green pacifists was precarious enough and not made any easier by that little shit, Dende. The child suspected something, Ginyu was sure of it. He’d seen those sharp eyes watching him, evaluating and questioning him, though he was certain that the brat hadn’t actually figured anything out. Still though, the scrutiny meant he had to be careful. Ginyu wasn’t so good at careful, his style tending more toward flamboyant and ridiculous in the extreme,  and the strain of covert operation was beginning to wear on him. What he wouldn’t give to just blow them all to pieces. He’d thought about it actually, on more than one occasion. The ship’s course was set to take him to wherever Vengeance was, but the intelligent part of his brain reminded him that if something should happen to go wrong, he would need the nameks’ knowledge of their strange spacecraft. That and he could hardly expect Vengeance to be completely alone, wherever he was. For all Ginyu knew, they might be headed toward a feeble little outpost, or a colony of hundreds. Either way, a lone man showing up in a ship full of slaughtered comrades would not be likely to gain trust, especially if one of those dead bodies belonged to Guru, one of Vengeance’s most trusted allies. Briefly, Ginyu wondered if he’d be able to figure out how to operate the ship’s disposal units to rid himself of bodies, but quickly dismissed the thought. It would be a lot of trouble to go through to kill and jettison everyone, and then take on the task of sniffing out Vengeance wherever, they were going, just to save himself the unpleasantness of the nameks’ company. Besides that, they weren’t all that bad, he reasoned with himself. They were quiet, introspective people, which meant that they left him alone for the most part, and that was good. Nail had also been a bit of a loner, which was part of the reason that Ginyu had picked his body to steal, so the other occupants of the ship tended to give him his space anyway.

                At this thought, he frowned again. _Most_ was the operative word. _Most_ did not include the brat Dende, or the obese old lump called Guru. Ginyu wrinkled his nose with distaste, wondering how a creature who consumed only water could possibly get so fat. Ginyu himself was sick of water, and resolved that the very minute he got out of this body, he was going to kill and eat the very first creature he saw. Being unable to eat meat – being unable to eat _anything_ – was really messing with his head. There was no difference for him between hunger and thirst, dehydration and starvation, and he’d never before realized how much something so simple as taste could have to do with satiation. His body was not hungry, yet his mind constantly craved food, simply for the flavour of it. Slow torture, this Namekian diet.

                And thinking of slow, he glared around at the walls of the old craft, sure that they could not be travelling in a straight line to wherever the hell they were going. A zigzagging path, full of unpredictable twists and turns was naturally the best course for prey who didn’t want to be followed, and Ginyu hoped that at least one of Zarbon’s ships had managed to trail them this far, despite whatever switchery Guru had pulled. Again, he damned the communications block that was shielding the whole ship, cursing his lack of forethought. He’d never have dreamed the Namek ship would possess any sort of advanced cloaking technology, that the old sage would be such a clever escape artist.

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                Bulma looked around the room, feeling almost as though she’d stepped into the twilight zone. One minute she’d been minding her own business, flipping through the hundreds and hundreds of channels available on the television, the next she was immersed in some sort of saiyan slumber party. Granted, there was no giggling and she thought someone would be likely to die if a pillow fight happened to break out, but with Vegeta still trapped in the regeneration tank for another few days at least, apparently the other three decided it was a perfect opportunity for a relaxing night in. So there they all were, in their matching, military issue black pyjamas, watching TV with her. It was an odd experience, to say the least, but if she was being truthful, she was kind of enjoying herself. Things had changed in the two days since she’d moved her things back into Vegeta’s room. It wasn’t like they were all best buds or anything, but it was like some sort of wall between herself and Vegeta’s loyal subjects had been removed. She wasn’t exactly one of them yet, but she wasn’t a complete outsider. With that in mind, she settled on an action movie that was just beginning. She’d intended to find something light and fluffy, a real chick flick, but didn’t think the guys would stick around for long if it meant watching a romantic comedy, and she was surprised at how much she did want them to stay.

                “I would kill for some popcorn right now.” Gohan sighed, snuggling under the blanket that he’d dragged off his bed.

                “What’s popcorn?” Radditz asked, eyeing the blanket enviously and wondering if he could just steal it, or if he’d have to get up and go get his own.

                “Salty, buttery, crunchy heaven.” Bulma replied with a smile as she rearranged her own nest of blankets and pillows. She wished Vegeta was there to cuddle with her instead of being off alone in the tank, but on second thought realized that he’d probably just sit there scowling, arms crossed and back rigid. And then he’d complain that they were all wasting valuable training time, and drag the other three off so that they could all beat the hell out of each other and leave her all alone again. No, she thought, Vegeta was definitely not the sort of man who’d snuggle up with her to laze away a cold evening on the couch.

                “I’ve yet to find anything quite like it.” Gohan was tucking his blanket tightly around himself, wary of his uncle’s train of thought. “I’ll share with you,” he narrowed his eyes, “but that means sharing, not stealing.” Radditz snorted and rolled his eyes, but Bulma saw him smile smugly as Gohan shuffled closer and draped some blanket across his uncle’s lap. By the time the movie was half over, Gohan had cuddled right up under Radditz’s arm and was snoring away.

                “Pfft, brat’s missing the best part.” Nappa scoffed as someone on screen got their head blown off, but Bulma could hear the strain of tenderness, so out of character, in his gruff voice. Nappa had been a father, she reminded herself. He’d had children back on Vegetasei, and she wondered if he ever saw Gohan in the same light as he’d seen his own cubs, as the saiyans tended to call them. For that matter, Radditz, too, doted on the boy and even Vegeta could be caught engaging in a moment’s kindness.

                “You guys really love him, don’t you?”  Bulma blurted out, unable to stop herself.

                “He is saiyan.” Nappa said stiffly. “He is one of us.” There was a short pause and then the biggest saiyan stood up abruptly and announced that he was going to bed. In the dim glow cast by the television, Bulma could see the faint flush on his cheeks as he passed her. Radditz chuckled as soon as he had left.

                “Under all that tough-guy moustache, Nappa is soft. He is a father, through and through; he cannot help himself.” Radditz brushed his hand through Gohan’s hair, long and unruly like his own. “As for me, Gohan is my blood, and the closest thing to a son that I will ever have. I have been pleased to care for him, these past two years, though I suppose things will change now that we have Kakarott back.”

                “You could have your own.” Bulma cocked her head, looking at the sleeping child, whose lips turned up at the touch on his head. “We know that humans can breed with saiyans. Who knows what other compatible species are out there?”

                “I have found my mate, and neither one of us has the necessary equipment.” Radditz said, wryly.

                “And if you never see him again? You said to me yourself that you have no idea where he is, no idea whether he wants you.”

                Radditz sighed and ran a hand across his face. This was obviously something he’d thought of already, and Bulma wasn’t sure why she’d brought it up; her newfound surety in her own feelings, perhaps? “My mind will not change.” He said, and then “Do you not feel the same for Vegeta? Is this not ‘the one’ that Gohan spoke of?” He shrugged and went on, not really expecting an answer. “Puar is my mate and will always be such, even if I never see him again. Though,” and here he smiled, his teeth glinting whitely in the dark, “I like to think that I would at least try, before I start running around, rutting  on random females in the hopes that one of them will be genetically compatible.” His grin widened at Bulma’s snort of laughter. “No, this cub is not my own son, and yet in a way, he is more mine than he is Kakarott’s. That will change in the future, I’m sure, but for now it is so.”

                “You know...” Bulma broke off, shaking her head as a smile spread across her face. “You guys are a constant surprise. I never would have expected you to be so sentimental, Radditz.” She giggled as he turned and glowered at her, her volume increasing as his eyebrows lowered.

                “Sentimental, this.” He harrumphed and shoved the sleeping Gohan off his lap and onto the floor. Bulma yelped and jerked forward as though to catch him, wincing as he hit the floor with a thump.

                “Ouch, what the heck?” Gohan muttered, waking quickly just before he hit the floor and narrowly managing to avoid landing on his head. He sat up, rubbing the elbow that had stopped his fall.

                Radditz shrugged. “S’her fault,” he said, jerking his chin at Bulma, whose mouth was hanging open with shock. Gohan rolled his eyes as he picked himself up off the floor.

                “Nice try.” He yanked the blanket from Radditz’s lap and balled it in his arms, grimacing sourly at his uncle as he did so, though Bulma could see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that meant he was close to laughter. “I’m going to bed. Try not to drop kick me in your sleep, uncle.”

                “No promises,” Radditz grinned, getting up to follow his nephew. Gohan said a polite good night to Bulma, while Radditz merely caught her eye and nodded. Left alone, Bulma sat for a moment before grabbing her own pillows and blanket, making a short trip down the hall to toss them on the empty bed before heading back out and down the ladder to the main deck where the infirmary was located. Vegeta was asleep in the tank, bathed in the soft, blue glow of its running lights, but his eyes fluttered open, locking onto her with disconcerting speed as she pushed her way through the door. She felt a small pang, missing the days before he learned to sense ki, when she could still sneak up on him. She smiled at him, and he twitched a finger in greeting.

                “Just came to check on you before I go to bed.” Bulma said, in response to his raised eyebrow, and she was sure that if he could speak through the mask, he would have been laughing at her. She stuck out her tongue and he rolled his eyes at her through the glass. “Well...goodnight to you too.” She thumped her left shoulder with her right fist, in parody of the Saiyan salute, whirled on her toes and flounced off to bed.

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                Despite the surprising amount of fun she’d had in her last few days trapped out in space with the saiyans, Bulma was pleased to finally be docking again with Red Station.  She missed her parents and her friends, her own bed and her laboratory, but most of all she missed having normal adult conversations, ones that weren’t fifty percent profanity – Radditz – or endless male posturing – Nappa – or grunted out between breaths because they happened to only take place between the sheets – isn’t it  obvious? – even thought that last form of conversation was pretty fun, if she was being truthful with herself. Still, she was anxious to get back, to make sure that nothing drastic had happened in her absence, and also to get started on her project. Without the stressed caused by her short-lived rift with Vegeta, she’d been able to give her full attention to the plans for the gravity room, and her newly purchased components. She’d already begun the work of cleaning and repairing the used equipment, but there was only so much she could do without access to some of the more specialized tools she had back in her own lab on Red.

                Grinning, Bulma rubbed her hands together in anticipation of cracking open the carefully packed cases, marrying these parts to those she’d already managed to collect. The gravity room would not be a thing of beauty, nor a marvel of engineering, but it would be solid and it would be functional, and most importantly, it would help Vegeta and the others boost their power levels a hundred times faster than they might normally progress. Then again, Bulma thought with a shudder as memories of Vegeta’s near explosion flooded her mind, perhaps such a quick jump wasn’t so good an idea.

                “Hey, quit daydreaming.” Radditz prodded her shoulder with the tip of his finger as he balanced a huge crate in his other hand. “Here, you carry this one.” He grinned and made to give her the crate – easily five hundred pounds – and she swatted him away.

                “This is more her size,” Nappa had two large boxes in one hand, one stacked atop the other. He held out his closed fist, and when Bulma extended her hand to take whatever it was, he dropped a single screw into her palm.

                “Oh ha ha, Nappa.” Bulma rolled her eyes and pocketed the screw, making a mental note to try and figure out later where it had come from. “You be careful, or I might just program the gravity machine to crush you the first time you step in.”

                “Now, now, children.” Gohan scolded lightly as he rolled a heavily laden trolley down the cargo ramp.

                “Don’t make me turn this ship around?” Bulma finished for him, waving as the inhabitants of Red Station came pouring into the bay to meet them. “Hey everybody!” She shouted cheerfully. “Please tell me you’re all here to help carry this load to my lab.”

                “Well sign me up!” Mrs. Briefs tottered over to a large bundle of piping, looking extremely unsteady in her two inch stiletto sandals. She bent down over the pile, rump wiggling in the air as she shifted from side to side, trying to figure out how best to approach the lifting of it. Bulma watched, amused, all the while knowing that the bundle weighed at least a hundred pounds.

“Err, let me help with that.” Krillin jumped in and hefted the weight, muscles bulging, while Bulma’s mother clasped one dainty hand around the rope holding the bundle together. She set off with a satisfied nod of her head.

“Oh my, this is such hard work!” Mrs. Briefs exclaimed as she led Krillin up the stairs and through the doorway. “I do think I’ve broken a sweat! I suppose I won’t have to work out today at all!” She tittered, clearly audible through the wall, and Bulma rolled her eyes at her father, who smiled back. Women of Mrs. Briefs line may not have been blessed with brains, but they’d certainly lucked out on the other end of the spectrum of desirable genes. Bulma doubted that her mother had ever done anything more strenuous than carrying her own purchases around the mall; pumping iron was way out of her league. While Bulma made no secret of her lazy habits and junk food addictions, her mother, for reasons unknown to both Bulma and her father, insisted that her trim waist and toned limbs were the product of hard work rather than simple (and envious) genetics. They humoured her, of course, but anyone who spent more than ten minutes in the company of Mrs. Briefs was sure to find out that she wouldn’t know her way around a dumbbell. Though, Bulma reflected, watching Nappa’s eyes follow her mother’s swaying bottom from the room, if she wasn’t careful she was going to end up with a new workout buddy.

“Yeesh, Nappa,” she muttered, sidling over to him so that the others couldn’t hear her, “quit ogling my mom! She’s married, and my dad is right there!”

“Oh, and what’s he going to do about it?” Nappa shrugged nonchalantly, fixing her with his customary why-should-I-give-a-shit glare.

“Oh fine, going to off my dad and marry my mom, are you?” She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “We’ll see just how much Vegeta likes the idea of you being his father in law, shall we?” She snorted at her own joke, but saw Nappa’s shoulders jump with surprise. Plainly, he’d have liked nothing more than for Vegeta to treat him as some sort of father figure. “Uhh, forget I said that.” She backpedalled quickly. “Please don’t kill my dad. My mother and I are very fond of him.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Nappa grunted, recovering his composure as he shifted the crates in his arms. “I am under strict orders from Vegeta not to kill anyone here.” He said, brushing past her to follow the others, making their way toward her lab with their burdens. Bulma sighed with relief, strangely reassured by that statement. No matter his personal feelings and whether or not he really did think usurping her father’s role as head of the Briefs women was a good idea, he’d never disobey a direct order from Vegeta. She glanced in her father’s direction to see him poking about in an open crate, a look of intense concentration on his face, excitement dancing in his eyes at the prospect before him. Oblivious, as usual, to the world around him.

“Safe for another day, daddy.” She sighed, crossing her fingers briefly before getting back to work.

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                Construction on the gravity room began as soon as possible, with Bulma and her father sequestering themselves in the chosen space for hours at a time, while the ship’s fighting contingent rumbled and grumbled about the wait. Being that Red Station didn’t have scads of room to spare, they’d simply decided to convert half of the pre-existing training space into new, gravity enhanced space. It was a good idea, everyone agreed, because it still left the option of regular G training for those who could not handle the forces under which the saiyans were sure to be torturing themselves, but it had the unfortunate side effect of squishing them all together in the half-space while the gravity room was under construction. And, as Bulma reminded them daily, this project was not something that could be completed in a matter of days. A wall had been erected to cordon off the experimental space, fairly quickly with the addition of saiyan labour, but it had yet to be reinforced, along with the other three walls, the ceiling, and the floor. The gravity simulator would then have to be installed, which would involve running some new electrics and ventilation into the room. Some sort of pressure locked door would have to be built, a safety system would need to be configured, as well as control panel and user codes to prevent someone like Mrs. Briefs from wandering in, jabbing a few buttons, and getting themselves squashed flat. Or, for that matter, someone like Vegeta from turning the gravity up way too high in some misguided belief that he could handle it. New software, AI and pressure reinforcement for the training drones that were already being used. The list went on and on, and after it was complete there was still testing, tweaking, and retesting a billion times before she could declare the thing safe for use.

                Bulma frowned, wondering how much work she could pawn off on those around her. Vegeta naturally wanted the GR done and ready as quickly as possible so she was certain she’d be able to get the saiyans to help with the construction and the heavy lifting, but how much time would he be willing to take away from their training? And how much work could she trust the saiyans to do, unsupervised and still know that it would be done to her exacting standards? One improperly welded seam in the wrong place could result in all their deaths, if the pressure from the gravity room should act on struts and beams that were not designed to withstand it. Bulma’s frown deepened. She had no desire to be crushed by an imploding mass of metal, and was pretty sure that the other inhabitants of Red Station would agree with her.

                “You there, Briefs girl,” Dr. Gero’s voice cut into her thoughts, and she whipped around, shocked to even see him outside of his lab. In the weeks since they’d gotten back, she had seen him only once, being shepherded back to his sanctuary by a harried-looking Sixteen.

                “Dr. Gero,” she smiled, quickly regaining her composure even though she could tell by the grimly satisfied look on his sour face that he knew he’d startled her. “What can I help you with?”

                “You’re making too much noise. Banging, hammering, all day and how am I supposed to concentrate?” He demanded, stabbing at the air in front of her with one finger, as though to actually jab her would be beneath him. Goodness knows he couldn’t sully his flesh by touching her, she thought uncharitably. Come to think of it, he hardly ever touched anyone, except maybe Sixteen.

                “I’m sorry, but you agreed to this.” Bulma said, patiently. The only thing that surprised her about his complaints was that he was here, making them in person instead of sending poor Sixteen to do his dirty work. “And besides, we’re almost done fortifying the walls, and then the banging will go down to a minimum.”

                “I don’t like it.” He looked at her, blue eyes vivid in his sallow face, made even more so by the black velvet of his tall cap.

                “I can’t make it any quieter.” Bulma shrugged, irritated by his unblinking gaze. She glared right back, ready to stare him down if that was what it would take to get the old fart off her back and out of her hair. It wasn’t the first time they’d butted heads over something, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

                “I don’t like it.” He said again.

                “Too bad.” Bulma retorted.

                “I don’t like it.” Gero repeated, and when Bulma simply compressed her lips into an unyielding line, he repeated himself. “I don’t like it.”

                Red faced with irritation, Bulma took a step toward him, ready to scream in his face if she had to. Up close, however, she noticed how utterly still he was, aside from a twitch in his right eyebrow, like a jumping muscle spasm. “Gero?” She asked, narrowing her eyes, “Are you okay?”

                “I don’t like it.” He said again, and she noticed that the inflection and pace of the words was exactly the same as the time before, like a skipping record. “I don’t...don’t.”

                “Dr. Gero?” She reached out and poked him in the chest, surprisingly firm for a man of his age, and his startled blue gaze fixed on her finger for the count of about three breaths before he whirled around and stalked out the door. Bulma watched as a concerned Sixteen met up with him, a look of relief plain on the android’s normally expressionless face. She squinted hard at them, wishing that she could read lips, for they were plainly exchanging a serious bit of quiet conversation over there, but she didn’t dare go interrupt. Just as she was wondering if she could possibly sneak closer without seeming suspicious, Sixteen placed a gentle hand on the small of Gero’s back and led him slowly out of the training area.

                Krillin, who had been training and therefore not paying much attention to the conversation, came wandering over when he saw Bulma staring thoughtfully after the pair. “Everything okay?” He asked, wiping his forehead with a towel as he followed Bulma back into the disaster zone that would one day soon become the GR.

                “Yeah, I think so...” Bulma paused, “But I think Gero might be losing it. He came in and yelled at me for being too loud, then he got all weird on me. He kept repeating himself and then he got...lost. It was like he was having some kind of, I don’t know, like an _episode_ or something.” She shrugged, groping for a word to describe the doctor’s odd behaviour.

                “I have noticed that Sixteen’s been hovering a lot more lately.” Krillin frowned, trying to recall if the doctor had done anything strange in Bulma’s absence. “You know Gero, he doesn’t come out of his lab much but last time I saw him, he did seem kind of...off. Twitchy. But maybe he’s just tired or something. He’s probably working so hard, cloistered up in there, that he’s not sleeping.”

                Bulma nodded, accepting the possibility, for she was no stranger to the strange sort of madness that came with too much work and too little sleep. She and her father called it Lab Fever, caused as it was by spending too much time sequestered alone or with very little company, concentrating on one thing to the exclusion of all others. “I hope you’re right.” Bulma said, grimacing down at her friend. “Because he’s crazy enough when he’s sane. I don’t want to see what happens when he goes senile.” Krillin laughed, but she could see that he, too, was considering the possibilities that might occur to such a mind as Dr. Gero’s, when the boundaries of logic and rationality were no longer in place.

                “Maybe I’d better have a talk with Sixteen.” Krillin said, suddenly a bit pale. “Make sure things are okay. In the meantime, anything I can help with in here?” He asked, raising his voice in a deliberate attempt to sound chipper. “I’m pretty well done my workout and the saiyans will be showing up any minute now; it’s their turn on the training floor.”

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                “What’s this thing do?” Vegeta asked, poking at an awkward looking contraption on the counter. He picked it up and turned it over, examining a front panel with one button, a switch, and two small spaces that he assumed would house lights once the thing was in place. The back appeared a messy tangle of wires, though Bulma assured him that everything was in perfect order.

                “It’s a pressure sensor,” she explained, plucking it from his hand to point out the parts. “Tester button, trouble light, on light so we know it’s hooked up properly, and the on/off switch.” She handed it back to Vegeta, who shrugged and put it back on the counter. “Normally that switch will stay on all the time, but it’s nice to have the off so that we can do tests or disconnect the power without having to remove the whole unit. There are several more of these, and they’ll be placed around the room to monitor the level of pressure that the gravity simulator is putting out.” She pointed out a few brackets, already up on the finished walls. It was two weeks after Gero’s odd little tantrum and they’d finished the heavy construction without another incident, much to Bulma’s relief. Now, however, came the technical work in which the brute strength would no longer do much to help. Nappa, Radditz, Gohan and Goku had been relieved to be released from their construction duties, though Vegeta still came often, trusted as he was to work without constant supervision. His ability to read schematics and then follow them to put things together properly was like a miracle after the first day of saiyan shenanigans without him. Amid the general insults and horseplay guaranteed by putting that many saiyans in a room together, Radditz’s scouter had been welded to the wall, someone else had melted “Nappa is a shit face” into the wall – most likely Radditz in retaliation for the scouter – and Goku had tacked is own boot to the floor somehow – while his foot was in it –  with the compression powered nail gun. Gohan was the only responsible one, but Chichi wouldn’t let him even pick up a power tool, despite the fact that he’d stared death in the face more times than he could count.

                Bulma shook her head, at once dismayed and entertained by their exploits. She hadn’t told Vegeta about all the trouble they’d been, but the next day when he’d shown up to do his part he’d obviously seen the results of their handiwork and had not been impressed. They’d managed to get the scouter down, thankfully, but short of sanding the metal wall down or replacing it entirely, that bit of graffiti was there to stay, much to Nappa’s displeasure.

                Puar floated in just then, startled to see Vegeta, and then suddenly wary in case any of the others might be around. “Coast clear?” He squeaked, floating over to Bulma, who nodded. Puar only came to help when he was absolutely certain that he wouldn’t run into Radditz, a fact which Bulma had noticed and admonished him for, until he admitted, red faced with embarrassment, the times he’d pretended to be nothing more than a cat so that he could get close to the object of his affection and terror.

                Vegeta, being Vegeta and therefore not inclined to bother caring, much less gossiping about it, was considered safe, not to mention the fact that he had heard Puar speak once before and had not thought it worthy of discussion with the other saiyans. “It’s safe,” Bulma waved him over. “And you’re just in time. I can’t find my square headed screwdriver.”

                “Oh, to be useful.” Puar sighed but looked at the head of the screw that Bulma was pointing at and obligingly popped into shape. Condensed as much as possible, he was still a large and unwieldy tool so it took a few moments of awkward manoeuvring for Bulma to tighten the desired screw. Thank goodness, he thought, popping back into cat form, or he was certain he’d spend the rest of his life trapped in Bulma’s toolbox.

                “Thanks!” Bulma grinned and patted him companionably on the head before grabbing the part and heading over to her ladder, which was fixed below an open duct in which Bulma was installing something or other. He didn’t ask what – ninety percent of the time, he didn’t understand the answer anyway – but spent the next quarter of an hour fetching things up and down for her while Vegeta sat at the workbench, methodically cleaning out a motor of some form. 

                “Hey Puar, could you help me again?” Bulma called out, her body half immersed in the duct. “There’s another screw in here.”

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                Radditz rubbed his belly, full of Mrs. Briefs’ delicious meat pie and that delicious goo she called gravy, and thought that if he were to burst that very second, he might just die with a smile on his face. Nappa was still in the kitchen stuffing his face, and Goku and Gohan had gone off who-knows-where, so Radditz had been elected (read: ordered) to come find Vegeta. Heavy with food, he ambled slowly down the hallway toward the training rooms, feeling out Vegeta’s ki as he went, cautious for any spikes or jumps in energy that might mean his prince was engaged in more than simple construction, being all alone with Bulma as he was. It was an unfortunate side effect of being able to sense ki; the suspicion that arose from an erratic reading, and the thoughts that arose from such suspicion. With both Vegeta and Goku, and their respective mates, in such close quarters, Radditz thought his balls might just explode with all the _suspicion_ he felt. Add to that the whole damn space station reeked with whiffs of Puar smell, and he couldn’t look at anyone on the ship, male or female, without imagining them naked.

                All seemed clear, however, as he made his way toward the construction site. Vegeta’s ki was reading steady and restful. The Puar smell was stronger here and Radditz frowned even as he felt the tingle at the base of his spine that always accompanied that particular scent; he wasn’t entirely convinced that it wasn’t coming from Bulma, since it seemed often to linger on her clothes. But then again, he’d had not even a whiff of it from her the whole time they were on the ship away from Red Station. He’d thought for a time that it had something to do with her cycle, but she’d bled twice now in the times that he’d been around, with no noticeable relation to the presence or intensity of the Puar smell. He shook his head, trying to clear his nostrils of it. He was supposed to be asking Vegeta about evening training, not speculating as to whether or not his prince’s female produced an intoxicating scent while she was in the midst of her girl time.

                The force of the aroma hit him like a wall as he stepped into the training room door and he froze, staring at the gravity room door on the other side of the room, every muscle tense and ready to spring. The source was in that room, he realized with sudden clarity as two minute ki signatures popped onto his internal radar. Bulma, and whoever else was driving him to distraction.

“Hey Puar, could you help me again?” Bulma called out, and Radditz gasped at the name, shivers running across every inch of skin. “There’s another screw in here.” He was across the room in two seconds, standing at the doorway to the new GR with his heart pounding as he scanned the room wildly, eyes resting first on Vegeta, then on Bulma, who appeared to be halfway inside the ceiling, and then with stomach dropping disappointment, on the little blue cat. He should have known, damn the furry little bastard! His fist clenched at his sides and he was debating the wisdom of punching the doorframe when the oddest thing happened.

“Up in a sec.” The cat said, in an ear piercing squeak of a voice. And if that wasn’t enough, it began to float up off the floor to settle on the top of the ladder. And then, right before his very eyes, it changed in a little puff of smoke, with a popping sound that reverberated around the room and up his spine. He stepped into the room, mouth hanging open as the oblivious woman and cat-turned-screwdriver went about their business. Vegeta looked up and nodded in greeting, a half-puzzled frown on his royal face as he watched his subordinate take in the transformation. Sure, it was a bit startling – and enlightening – the first time, but Radditz was staring as though he’d just seen Vegetasei reborn.

“Shapeshifter...” Radditz whispered quietly, all the hair on his tail standing on end. It all made sense. The smells, constantly and everywhere, and just now, the name that Bulma had called the cat... He felt sick. And angry. And more sick, and absolutely fucking furious. And also horny.

Bulma climbed down the ladder with the ungainly screwdriver in her hand and her back to the incensed animal standing in the doorway, so that neither she nor Puar had a clue that he was even there. Vegeta coughed and she turned, startled, to see the quavering, long haired form staring her down. Puar clattered to the floor with a snap and a pop as he shifted back into cat form, rubbing his butt, which was apparently what he’d landed on, as he floated back up to his standard height of hovering around Bulma’s shoulder.

“YOU!” Radditz roared, stepping forward, then stopping as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. His hands were shaking, his tail lashing from side to side, and even both non-fighters could see that his ki was jumping like madness, judging by the erratic aura that surrounded him, flashing like a strobe light. He wiped a hand across his face, pressing hard over his eyes, and then blinking as though to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Puar was still there, all right, shaking like a little leaf as his wide eyes took in the raging form of his erstwhile lover. “All along, it’s been you! You little shit!” Radditz snarled, this time lunging forward, his hand outreached. Puar shrieked and tried to zip out of range but the saiyan was much faster, catching Puar by the tail and yanking him back down.

“Puar!” Bulma gasped as the cat yowled, but Vegeta’s hand on her shoulder stayed her from moving. She hadn’t seen him move, focused as she was on the berserker in the room. She glanced at him, met his eyes as he shook his head, and frowned. Vegeta wouldn’t let Radditz hurt Puar, would he?

“You,” Radditz was hissing as he adjusted his grip on the furry appendage in his grasp, eyes trailing up and down the trembling little body. His grip tightened in the fur and he felt his cock jump, stiff in his shorts. “I don’t know whether to kill you...or...or...” he broke off at a warning rumble from Vegeta and turned to see the pair watching him. He blushed suddenly, only just coming to grips with the fact that he had an audience. He was breathing hard with the effort to get himself under control, though Bulma noted that Vegeta’s presence was definitely having a positive effect on that front. He’d stopped flickering and her own arm hair was no longer standing on end from the static electricity he was emitting. He took a deep, calming breath through his nose, breathing it out in a huff as he met Puar’s terrified eyes.

Puar squeaked, though he immediately covered his mouth with his paws, making it plain that he hadn’t meant to make any kind of sound in the first place. Radditz pulled down, bringing the cat’s little body in line with his face so that he could glare him right in the eye. He took another shaky breath, but to everyone’s relief, including his own, he appeared to have set his mind to rights.

“The next time we fuck,” he said, voice low but abundantly clear, “you will keep this.” He tugged the tail once, quickly, and let go before he turned and stalked back out the door, the tip of his own tail twitching madly against his calves as he went.

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Oh Radditz, you are lacking in the romance department. But your little red thigh garter is the sex, so I’ll forgive you.


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: IMPORTANT!!!!!!!! I am warning you RIGHT NOW, this chapter is NOT work safe, and NOT child friendly. This chapter contains homosexual sex, and it’s a little bit on the dirty side. In fact, it might be the porniest thing I’ve ever written. It’s not the filthiest thing you’ll ever find on the internet (not even close, considering the complete and utter truth of Rule #34), but it is certainly not hearts and flowers, tender, gay lovemaking either. Everybody here knows Radditz is a bit of a pervert; just think of what happens behind his closed door! If  you think you might be uncomfortable with that, especially given that most of my audience is here for the B/V factor, you may want to head on over to fanfiction.net where the M-rated, non-explicit version of this chapter can be found.

                Conversely, if you think you might enjoy some dirty Radditz talk, pull up a chair and hope for the best. This is my first time writing M/M so let’s hope it turns out. O_o

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PRESENT DAY

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                Radditz was pacing. He’d _been_ pacing for a good half hour at least, non-stop. He’d tried sitting, tried glaring out the porthole into space beyond, hell, he would have tried standing on his head, if he thought it might have helped, but being still for more than two seconds made him itch with rage, so pacing was the brooding activity of choice. It made for a boring route, confined as he was to the small room he shared with Gohan, but his mind wasn’t really on the view anyway. He was boiling mad, every muscle tense and every hair standing on end. His hands clenched and unclenched involuntarily at his sides, so much so that the tendons in his forearms had begun to ache with the strain of it.

                “Fuck Puar,” he seethed, hissing the words out through clenched teeth, “and fuck Bulma too.” He added, momentarily pissed that she’d chosen not to tell him anything, even though every damn time he’d poured his heart out, she must have been laughing with the fucking cat behind his back. All evening he’d been torn between blinding rage and unbearable, heart-ripping pain. He’d thought Puar was his mate, his very own partner, and yet the man...cat...shapeshifter – what the FUCK was he, anyway? – had done nothing so far but jerk him around. All those times, the fucking smell of him, the little bastard had been within reach and never said a word. Radditz jammed a hand through his hair, snarling and yanking as his fingers tangled in its mass. How could he have been so stupid, he wondered, feeling the anger bubble back up, threatening to boil over if he wasn’t careful.

                That, at least, was a valuable outcome of so much fury. He hadn’t been careful during the evening training session, hadn’t tried to reign himself in, hadn’t even bothered with the strategy or planning or teamwork that normally got him through each day, and hell if he hadn’t fought better than he’d ever fought before. Nappa was still in the regeneration tank, to prove it. Even Gohan had seemed a  little unnerved by his uncle’s new found prowess, though he hadn’t said anything, tactful little shit that he was. That trait must have come from watching Vegeta, Radditz thought, because neither he nor Nappa were so taciturn, and the boy’s parents didn’t know the meaning of the word subtle. Gohan was probably smarter than to mouth off to a half-crazed berserker too, especially considering that the damn kid had likely met the scheming little cat before and had also neglected to say anything to his poor, blue-balled uncle.

                Fuck, speaking of blue balls...Radditz adjusted the fit of his training shorts for the thousandth time. Not only was he furious and hurt, he had an aching cockstand, fit to pitch a big top circus tent. Lust and violence were not a good combo for a man who hadn’t had any sexual gratification beyond his own hand for the last several months...gods, he thought, it must have been getting on towards a year, maybe even more, since that one and only night with the man who’d occupied his every fantasy since. Radditz’s fingers twitched furtively over the material at his crotch and his eyes darted briefly toward the door. His face flushed with embarrassment, shame pouring through his veins as he realized how pathetic he must seem; so desperate for someone who’d treated him so poorly that he’d risk jacking off in the room he shared with his eight year old nephew, who might walk in and catch him at any moment. Resolutely, he clenched his hand at his side and told his erection to fuck right the hell off.

                It didn’t work.

                Okay, cold shower time. And maybe there’d be no one else in there and he could...NO. Radditz shook his head. He had more pride than that, didn’t he? Frustrated to the core, Radditz strode back across the room and flung the door open, whereupon he ran smack dab into the object of his desire.

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                Puar let out a squeak and an oomph as Radditz collided with him, knocking his own much lighter body to the floor. He blinked and looked up, suddenly thinking that this had been a bad idea when he met Radditz’s eyes, coal black pits glaring him down. To his credit, he managed to pick himself up off the ground without first soiling himself, and stood up straight in front of the bristling saiyan. He’d come in his humanoid form, maybe hoping to incite charity, maybe hoping to be jumped and fucked before he actually had to say anything, he wasn’t sure. But he’d come, and that was a pretty big step.

                Radditz’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he looked the cat-turned-man up and down with a look that suggested he was considering where to begin his attack to cause the most pain so as to prolong suffering before he went in for the kill. “You’re two inches shorter,” he said instead, his voice rough and garbled with the effort of being civil.

                Puar reached behind himself, grasping the long blue tail with one hand and holding it up like a peace offering. “The mass for this...it had to come from somewhere.” His cheeks were pink and he looked away for a split second, shy like he’d been on their first night, but then he shook his head and met Radditz’s gaze with uncommon boldness. “If I’d known the first time...that I would meet you, I mean,” his cheeks burned hotter with every word, though he lifted his chin and straightened his back proudly, “I might have kept it in the first place.”

                “Why, to torture me more?” Radditz ground out, fingers twitching with the urge either to wrap around Puar’s neck, or to run through his hair, Radditz wasn’t sure. He was at war with himself like he’d never been before, on one hand wanting to fall to his knees and beg Puar to stay with him, and on the other, more prideful hand, wanting to turn on his heel and slam the door in the man’s face, to sulk and lick his wounds in private. He did neither, and his body trembled with the effort of standing still. “Do you have _any_ idea...” Radditz took a halting step forward, stopped himself as panic crossed the shapeshifter’s face. “I wasn’t cruel to you, was I?” He asked more softly this time.

                “N...no, you weren’t.” Puar managed, resolutely standing his ground and not giving in to the urge to turn tail and run from the burly mass of confused fury before him. “I thought that you would be mad...when you found out.” He was looking at his own hand, twisting it to and fro in the air, marvelling at the fine form of the long, straight fingers. “I can’t stay like this forever, you know. I’ve got about eight hours in me, at most. With time and practice, maybe more, but I’m still going to have to be a cat sometimes. Maybe most of the time. Are you prepared to accept that?” Puar asked, looking Radditz in the eyes, “Because I won’t hide or be hidden to save your pride.”

                “You _stupid_ little bastard!” Radditz roared, completely unable to hold back the fury spilling forth. He snatched Puar by the front of his shirt, propelling him backward into the wall. He snarled at the human-shaped cat, leaning forward and hunching his shoulders so that their faces were mere inches apart.  “I was ready to fuck a plant, because of you! A gods-be-damned _houseplant_! Well fuck you and your stupid little cat body, I’ll fuck that too, if that’s what it takes! You turn into whatever fucking thing you think is necessary, and I’ll have it writhing on the floor! I don’t give a fucking shit what you are at any given moment, I will find a way to fuck you!”

                Around the corner, Gohan winced, adding another tick to the “fuck” count inside his head. They were at six, in a matter of a few sentences; that didn’t bode well. Add that to the fact that he didn’t really want to be hearing this conversation in the first place, and there was one uncomfortable eight year old.

                “Fuck this, and fuck you!” Radditz’s snarl was followed by a surprised sort of oomph from Puar, and then silence that made Gohan just the slightest bit worried. He added seven and eight to the count in his head as he peeked slowly around the bend in the hall, only to duck back again, blushing. His uncle had Puar squished up against the wall, one hand grasping the back of the shapeshifter’s head, the other on his back and heading south, and the view was pretty well obstructed by Radditz’s hair, but Gohan was pretty sure that they were kissing, and Puar did not look like he objected, if the arms clamped around the saiyan’s shoulders were any indication.

                Gohan grimaced, knowing that now was the time to leave, but he really, really just wanted to go to bed. He heard a shuffle and a grunt and poked his head around the corner again, just in time to see the tip of Radditz’s tail disappear and the door slid shut. He crept out from his hiding place and stood in the hallway facing the room he shared with his uncle, not really sure what to do. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to be sleeping in his own bed tonight. And his pyjamas were in there too, damn it.

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                Puar gasped as Radditz picked him up, easily and without warning. They were inside the bedroom before Puar even knew what had happened, though he supposed he shouldn’t feel too surprised. He hadn’t expected Radditz to haul off and kiss him, after pretty well telling him to get fucked, but that sort of technicality wasn’t something that would stop a man like Radditz anyway. Just like apparently being a squeaky blue cat wasn’t a problem either.

                Puar thanked his lucky stars as his back hit the wall in the bedroom, knocking the air out of him. Okay, maybe they’d have to have a little talk about gentleness, but Radditz _didn’t care_! After all of his worrying, his hiding and his avoidance, the thing he’d thought would be an insurmountable wall was just an inconsequential little pile of rubble. “Whoops, sorry.” Radditz mumbled, hearing the soft wheeze as Puar tried to reinflate his lungs. “C’mon, wrap your legs around me, I’ll hold you up.” The saiyan said, his lips trailing over the smooth skin at the junction between Puar’s neck and shoulder. He nipped, eliciting a startled yelp from his partner, who did as he was told.

                “You’re like a sheepdog.” Puar hissed as he hitched his legs on Radditz’s hips. “Are you going to bite me every time I’m slow to move?”

                “Yes, you should remember that from last time.” Radditz squeezed Puar’s behind, one big hand on each cheek as he leaned forward, using the wall to brace his companion. “You’re saucy this time,” he laughed, quickly catching Puar’s mouth with his own before he broke away again, panting, “I like it.”

                “You’d better.” Puar responded, for lack of anything better to say yet feeling as though he should have the last word.

                “I might like it if you bite me sometime, too.” The saiyan groaned as Puar’s hands dug into his biceps. “Hard.” He added, thrusting his hips to make the cat arch back against the wall, neck stretched as his head fell back, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his moans. One of Radditz’s hands came up, fingers running down over the pale column of flesh, then back up and over Puar’s lips. “With your sharp little fangs, oh Gods.” He half whispered as Puar ran his tongue over one finger, sucking it into his mouth and against his teeth. “Ahhh, yes little kitten,” he pulled his fingers free, running the saliva-wet digits across kiss-swollen lips, “that’s the way I want you to suck me. On your knees with my hands in your hair, my cock down your throat...” He trailed off, leaning in to nip Puar’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently tugging before he let go and kissed him properly. “You want that too, don’t you?” Radditz asked, leaning in and burying his face in Puar’s neck as his hand trailed back down to grasp the base of Puar’s tail, and the shapeshifter found himself nodding. “You want to wrap your sweet pink lips around me, yeah?” He rubbed with his thumb and two fingers, pressing down ever so slightly where tail connected with spine. “I want to lick you right here. Is it the same for you as it is me?”

                “N...next time.” Puar panted, still finding the slow movements incredibly erotic even though they weren’t affecting him the way Radditz obviously intended. “I’ll change that, too.”

                “Ah well,” Radditz chuckled, the hand abandoning his backside and instead slipping between them to cup the hardness in Puar’s jeans. “This,” he whispered, “I know this is the same.” He turned, other hand still grasping Puar by the bottom for support as he moved toward the bed. He set Puar down on wobbly legs and sat down, leaning back a little with his hands to brace him. “Come here,” he said, gesturing to the floor space between his spread knees, “and take off your clothes.” He pulled his own shirt up and over his head, tossing it on the floor at Puar’s feet with a soft thump. “Don’t get shy on me, cat.” He reached out and hooked a finger through one belt loop, tugging Puar into the v formed by thick, muscled thighs. “Make with the buttons,” he jerked his head at the row running down the front of Puar’s shirt, “or lose them.

                “Since when are you in charge?” Puar snapped, blushing as he undid the first button with trembling fingers. How many months had he been fantasizing about this moment, his reunion with Radditz’s more carnal side? It was a hell of a lot less romantic than he’d imagined, but then again, where was he going to fine a thousand candles and silk sheets on Red Station. Puar figured he’d take what he could get, but he was still shaking with nerves and sudden shyness that embarrassed him all the more because he felt silly being so coy with a man who already had intimate knowledge of his inside parts.

                “Since I’m bigger than you.” Radditz grinned and popped the button on Puar’s jeans. “And since you like it when I tell you what to do.” The fly went down and Radditz tugged the loose jeans down over Puar’s hips, past his thighs, leaving them to fall in a heap around his ankles. He pushed the tails of Puar’s half-buttoned shirt out of the way and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the flat, hard plane just between his belly button and the waistband of his boxers. Puar shuddered, feeling Radditz’s breath, hot on his erection, through the material of his underwear. “Now hurry up and finish, or you might not get another chance to take this off.” He moved back, allowing the fabric to fall back into place. “And you don’t wanna get sweat and come all over your nice, clean shirt, do you?”

                “D...Don’t talk like that!” Puar felt his whole face heat up and he looked down at his chest, where his fingers were fumbling desperately with the next button. He could tell that Radditz was grinning, though he couldn’t bring himself to look.

                “Like what? You don’t want me to say _come_?” Radditz laughed, reaching out with one hand to grasp Puar through his shorts and making the cat gasp with the suddenness of the movement. “So I can make it happen, but I can’t say the word? I can suck you off and shove my cock up your ass, but I can’t talk about it?”

                “You make it sound so...so _filthy_!” Puar hissed, this time pausing mid-button to glare at his companion. To his consternation, Radditz’s grin only widened, and Puar found himself feeling a bit silly in his objections. Instead of admitting it, he added a stink-eyed sort of squint to his glare.

                “Sex is filthy business, little kitten. You think putting nice words on it makes it better?”

                “Yes! It makes me not sound so demeaning!” Puar was still undoing his buttons, despite his better judgement, maybe because Radditz’s hand was still on his crotch. He tossed off the button up and yanked his undershirt over his head, throwing them both in a pile with Radditz’s.

                “Silly boy.” Radditz removed his hand only long enough to get into Puar’s underwear, once again grasping firmly, slowly stroking with one hand as the other pulled the boxers down too. “When I tell you I want to fuck you, when I tell you I’m going to come in your ass, or that I’m going to suck your cock, then you’ll know it’s because I want you too badly to be nice about it. You’ll know that unless I have you writhing in my arms in the next heartbeat, that I am going to die with the need of you. Sometimes I’ll be so rough you’ll wonder what you’ve done to deserve it, and others you’ll wonder what sweet and gentle saint has possessed me, but I promise you,” he paused and Puar let out a strangled gasp as he came, spurting warm and wet onto the saiyan’s chest, “that I will always be fucking you like I’ll die if I don’t. Anything less just isn’t worth it.” Radditz stood and dropped his pants, kicking them off before he sat back down and spread his knees wide, stiff erection pointing out and up between them. “Now come here, get down on your knees Puar, and suck my cock.”

                Puar gulped, looking at the menacing body before him – all taut muscles and hard angles and coal black eyes – and briefly wondered what Radditz would do if he turned and walked out without a word. Not that he really wanted to...did he? If he said aloud that he was more than a little afraid of the other man, it really wouldn’t be a lie. If he said that he was worried that his lower regions were leading him straight to doom, it also wouldn’t be a lie. If he said he really didn’t want to get down on his knees, now _that_ would be the lie. He swallowed again, looking to Radditz like a man who knows he’s about to die, and is trying to decide if he wants to go down blazing or begging for his life.

                Resolutely, Puar stepped out of his pants, quickly squatting down to grab some things from his jeans pocket. Straightening back up, he stepped forward to stand between Radditz’s knees and tossed a few condoms and a small bottle of lube on to the bed beside his tyrant lover. “Fine.” Puar said, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring the saiyan down. “But you remember, while I’m down there doing exactly what it takes to get you off, you remember that I’m on my knees because I want to be, not because you told me to. And you can be rough or gentle, but you’re going to be damn nice about it Radditz. That means lube,” he gestured toward the bottle, “and that means you remembering that I’m not as strong as you are. I’m not going to spend every morning in a regen tank because you wanted it a little harder the night before, understand? You treat me like crap, and I am out of here.”

                “Ooh, I love it when you get all assertive,” Radditz grinned as Puar dropped to his knees, and reached out a hand to caress the shapeshifter’s close cropped hair. “Next time you be the boss and I’ll be your slave boy.”

                “And one more thing,” Puar said in an iron voice that Radditz never would have expected to hear from him. Honestly, it was kind of a turn on. “You fuck me, and only me.” He cupped his hand around Radditz’s balls and looked up, angelic with his pale skin and wide, blue eyes. “Get the uncontrollable urge to fuck someone else like you’ll die if you don’t, and you’d better be prepared to bite the bullet because I _will_ find a way to kill you.” He squeezed, with his hand, opened his mouth and    ran his tongue from root to tip, before closing his teeth ever so gently around the shaft, just behind the swollen, straining head. He eased his jaw and clamped his lips instead, slowly easing it deeper into his mouth.

                “Oh gods,” Radditz moaned, leaning his weight on one hand so he could clutch and Puar’s short, bristled crop of hair with the other. “I’m yours. Tie me up and beat me, too. I’ll even call you Master. Fuck!” He breathed as Puar’s head began to bob slowly back and forth. “I thought I was supposed to be in charge here. Shows what the fuck I know.” He let out a strangled gasp as he felt the tip of his cock nudge against the back of Puar’s throat, the convulsions of the warm passage as the gag reflex kicked in and Puar began to cough.

                “You’re only in charge when I let you be.” Puar said, wiping the corner of his mouth where spit had gathered.

                “Heh,” Radditz laughed, pulling Puar up and into his lap, the cat’s back to him. “But I’m still bigger than you. Bend over and I’ll show you who’s boss.”

                “Face to face.” Puar shook his head even as Radditz reached around and took hold of him, teasing him back to stiffness with ease. He arched back into Radditz’s chest, felt the tickle of breath in his ear, and nearly changed his mind. “Or I walk.”

                “So full of threats today,” Radditz laughed, his free arm wrapping around Puar’s waist like a steel band, to hold him against his body. “But I don’t believe you. Not this time.” He nipped the shapeshifter’s shoulder, the crook of his neck, his ear. “Look at you, you’re shaking. You’re so hard again, just from a little touching, that I bet I could make you come just by blowing in your ear. Like fuck you’ll get up and leave now.” Raddiz chuckled again. “If you did that, who would take care of this for you, hmm?” He tapped Puar’s swollen tip with one finger. “So if you want that fixed for you, you just remember that you’re mine tonight, yeah? And that means I’m going to have you any way I want you.” He wrapped his fingers slowly around the shaft, tips touching down one by one, and squeezed just a little bit.

                “Nnhaa...Radditz!” Puar panted, reaching one hand up behind his head to grab a fistful of the saiyan’s hair, the other clamping on the arm around his waist, whether to gain support or cause pain, he wasn’t sure.

                “So get on your hands and knees, little blue cat, and you stick this sweet little ass of yours up in the air, and let me fuck you senseless.” Nodding frantically, Puar scrambled and strained against Radditz’s pinioning arm, his bare feet scrabbling against the floor as he tried to break free of the hold. “Tcha...think you’re the boss, do you?” Radditz snorted, releasing the shapeshifter and half tossing him down onto the bed in one motion. He snatched up the bottle of lube as Puar settled himself at the edge of the bed, feet dangling, elbows supporting his upper body, his forehead resting on cradled forearms. “You’re wound up tighter than a fucking spring.” Radditz commented, placing a hand on Puar’s backside and feeling him jump. “Relax,” he said a little more soothingly, though his voice was still rough with want and plain old saiyan-ness, “it’s nothing new. Same as last time.”

                “It isn’t! Ahh!” Puar gasped as he felt lips touch down just above the base of his tail and big, warm hands caressing his naked thighs.

                “How so?” Radditz skimmed the skin of one cheek with his lips, opened his mouth and bit, gently, of course. “Gods, your tail is so sexy.” He murmured, running his fingers along the lightly furred appendage.

                “I’m not completely plastered, for one.” Puar grit his teeth, fighting the urge to purr like the cat he was. “And you know what I am...oh,” he groaned, “are you licking my tail?” He shook his head as a chuckle rumbled out from the saiyan’s chest. “And I hadn’t planned on bolting in the middle of the night and never seeing you again...” He trailed off, squirming as Radditz urged his knees further apart.

                “You planned on never seeing me again? Ouch.” Radditz picked up the lube and popped the top, watching with pleasure as his lover’s spine tightened with anticipation. He poured a generous amount into his palm, tossed the bottle aside and rubbed his hands slowly together, warming it before he ran one slick finger down from below Puar’s tail, slowly circling, gently teasing his mate into readiness. “Ahh, you look so tight.” Radditz moaned, spreading with slippery hands and shifting his hips forward so that the tip of his cock brushed that puckered entrance.

                “Hey!” Puar tossed a condom packet over his shoulder, hitting Radditz square in the forehead. It bounced and landed on the small of his back. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

                “Saiyans aren’t susceptible to most STDs.” Radditz countered, but reached for the packet when Puar lifted his head and glared back over his shoulder. “Ahh, fine. To make you happy.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on Puar’s bare shoulder, ripping open the foil at the same time. “Extra big, huh?” He grinned at the packaging as he rolled the rubber down over himself. “You remembered, how sweet.”

                “I borrowed them from Bulma and Vegeta.” Puar hid his grin in the sheets as he heart the disgruntled ‘humph’ from behind him. “Jeez, Radditz, I couldn’t walk properly for days!” He added, a little more seriously. “How could I forget?” He stopped talking and tensed, a little frightened and a whole lot excited, as Radditz took hold of his hips once more, spreading him with slippery thumbs, and once again the nudge of that warm, hard shaft. He did his best to calm down and relax as Radditz began to fill him, but the nerves had returned and he was once again feeling a little terrified of the big man behind him.

                “Haa...’m I...” Radditz grunted, “hurting you?” The hands squeezed, gently kneading as he pushed further in. “You’ve got to relax...gods, you’re so tight.” The saiyan groaned, leaning his long body forward over his mate as he eased himself in the final inch, his pelvis firmly in contact with soft, smooth white cheeks. He pressed a kiss on Puar’s shoulder, his hands moving up to rub the trembling biceps. “Puar, are you okay?” A nod and an affirmative mumble directed into the sheets, and Radditz was straightening up again, taking his first experimental pull, just an inch or so out, before slowly pushing back in. Puar gasped and his tail jerked and coiled, but he held firm, pushing his hips backward to meet the next thrust.

                “I’m okay.” Puar muttered shyly, into the sheets as Radditz slid out and slowly in again. “You can...ah...go faster. I know you like it better.”

                “Puar,” the saiyan rubbed a palm slowly over the curve of hip and thigh, squeezing and kneading like a masseuse, “just because I want you in this position doesn’t mean it has to be rough.”

                “Radditz!” Puar buried his face in the mattress for a moment before craning his neck as far around as he could. “Go. Faster.” He hissed through clenched teeth, cheeks red with embarrassment. Puar, always happy to get what he could and usually deeply ashamed of himself after, had never been a demanding lover, but the saiyan’s excruciatingly slow pace was driving him crazy.

                “Oooh, tell me what to do some more.” Radditz grinned but obligingly tightened his hold and picked up the pace. “It makes me hot.”

                “Shut...uhn...up.” Puar wondered again at the wisdom of coming here tonight. He wasn’t so used to being teased and he thought maybe Radditz might have been a little more serious or at least a little less talkative if he’d let the whole mess stew for a few days before offering himself up on a platter. Shit, what was it that Bulma had always said? Don’t let a man get too cocky! Well...the problem was that he liked them cocky, in more ways than one, he was reminded as the impact of said appendage fired through his body, jolting every nerve and turning his bones to mush. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensations around him – the frantic slide and slap of flesh together, the weight of a warm, heavy body against him, the rub of the sheets against his knees and elbows, rough hands on his skin. Radditz was bold and brash and crude and everything Puar wanted to be but didn’t have the courage for. He was strong and self assured and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, and to be the object of desire of a man like that...it was heady. It made him feel powerful, knowing that while he might meekly submit and allow himself to be dominated, it was only by his permission. If he’d wanted to, he could have the saiyan tied to the bed instead, spread and at his mercy.

                He must have moaned aloud at the thought, for when he opened his eyes again, it was with surprise to feel Radditz’s chest suddenly against his back as the saiyan leaned forward, lips panting just behind his ear. “Thinking of something good, were you?” He nipped with sharp teeth and Puar tilted his head back, trying to get closer as Radditz opened his mouth and clamped his jaw down at the base of Puar’s neck. The cat yelped moreso in surprise than pain – it didn’t really hurt and he was certain that the intent was not to break the skin, though he thought he might have a bruise in the morning. It was simply shocking to be bitten after one has accepted the fact that one is not about to become dinner.

                “Hush.” Radditz growled, briefly removing his mouth before setting his teeth again. He put his hands down on the bed, gaining purchase and forcing Puar to bow lower on the bed in accommodation. A few hard thrusts and Puar hardly felt the shift in weight before one of Radditz’s hands was on him, warm and tight and pumping with every thrust of his hips.

                “Sh...shit!” Puar cried out in a strangled voice. “I’m gonna...ngh!” He arched and squirmed beneath the saiyan, who grunted and bit down harder, as though to keep him from moving as his thrusts became wilder, quicker, more desperate. He could feel the convulsions of the body around him, the tensing and tightening of every muscle and tendon before the mass relaxation of the body that comes with release. Dimly, Radditz knew that Puar was apologizing, the poor man unreasonably mortified at the mess he’d made of both the bed and the hand that held him, but he was too lost in sensation, in achieving his own pleasure now that his partner had been taken care of, to notice much besides his own throbbing cock.

                It was the best orgasm he’d ever had, Radditz thought as he came back to his senses a moment latern and realized that he was practically crushing the poor shapeshifter beneath him. He pulled out and stood watching as Puar stretched out gratefully, obviously pleased to be off his knees. He turned to pull off the condom, thoughtfully wrapping it up and tossing it in the garbage, and when he turned back he found that Puar had crawled beneath the blankets and was looking nice and cozy.

                “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, hands on his hips, proudly nude and shining with sweat and other bodily fluids. “Silly cat, you didn’t think we were done already, did you?” He laughed at Puar’s distressed face – the face of easy prey – and pounced.  

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                Bulma twisted slowly around, wiggling to disengage herself from Vegeta’s arms. He frowned and mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, saiyan words that she didn’t understand, but didn’t wake up. It was just after three in the morning and she’d woken up tangled in the sheets, with a cramp in her neck from laying awkwardly on Vegeta’s shoulder. She frowned, squinting in the dark to try and find her panties, which she’d flung off just a few hours earlier. Ahh, there they were, hanging precariously from the standing lamp across the room. Her thighs rubbed slickly together as she went to get them and heat flushed through her body in remembrance. She glanced thoughtfully at the bed, but shook her head and put her underwear back on; if her getting up hadn’t woken him, it was a sure sign that Vegeta needed his rest. He’d been doing double time since the completion of the heavy construction, spending every waking moment either training with his men or helping her piece together the rest of the GR. Well, she admitted to herself, when he wasn’t making love to her, that was. All combined, he’d been sleeping only a few hours each night and it was starting to show.

                Bulma stretched languidly before sitting back down on the bed, thinking of the urgency and suddenness of their earlier coupling and wondering if it meant that Radditz and Puar had, er, _reconciled_. She knew that they could all feel each others’ ki, knew the potential for said ki to jump erratically when they were in the grips of strong feelings, but she’d never have put two and two together if she hadn’t come upon Gohan one day, a vivid red flush across his cheeks with one fist raised, paused and about to knock on his parents’ door. She laughed quietly to herself, recalling the embarrassed look on the poor kid’s face, the horror in his eyes at the thought of what they were doing in there. She’d been surprised at the time, considering that, thanks to Radditz and Nappa, he knew more about sex than any eight year old had business knowing. He was so matter of fact about everything, typical saiyan, but the thought of his own parents together still threw him for a loop, like any typical human adolescent.

                Speaking of typical saiyan, she snorted to herself, looking again to the humped tangle of bedclothes. He’d responded to Radditz’s explosive declaration with his typical witty nonchalance, while she and Puar stared open mouthed at Radditz’s retreating back. “Well,” he’d said, eyebrows pulled down in a frown as he examined Puar’s small, trembling body, “I know that’s probably not how it went down, but that is one disturbing mental picture.” And in typical Vegeta fashion, he’d not said a word more about it all night, simply returning to the task at hand and then going about his business as usual. Bulma wondered briefly if he might have said something to Radditz during their training time after dinner, but quickly dismissed the thought. Trying to get Vegeta to talk was like trying to teach her own mother calculus; it just didn’t work. No way in hell would he willingly invite one of his men to share about feelings and romantic entanglements.

                Bulma plumped up her pillows and leaned back against them, pulling the blankets up over her lap, not really tired enough to lie down and attempt sleep, though not energetic enough to get up and do something. She’d been so focused on the construction of the gravity machine lately that she felt as though she’d hardly had a moment to herself so for the moment, simply sitting and thinking in the dark seemed wonderfully decadent. Peaceful, when she knew on the other side of sleep would be noise and chaos and frustration in that damn dome once more.

                Vegeta, as though sensing her warmth or her nearness, rolled onto his side toward her, curling up a little as he did so. One knee brushed her leg and he sighed in his sleep at the contact, as though he’d been holding his breath, and settled once more. Bulma felt her heart jump painfully in her chest as she looked down at him, hardly more than a darker blot in the dark room, and yet she felt as though she could see him clearly. His face was softer in sleep, though sometimes he frowned in his nightmares, of which she was sure he had many. It was weeks since they’d come back to Red Station, weeks that he’d been sharing her bed again and every night, as he’d finally consented to give up his lone room to Piccolo and bunk with her. She could feel his body stiffen in the night – not every night and not necessarily often – each muscle rock hard with tension while she worried and fretted over whether to wake him, torn between the desire to ease his suffering and the knowledge that he would not appreciate her seeing him in his weaker moments.

                Bulma ran her hand along his forehead, up and over his hair, stiff and springy against her fingers. He was calm tonight, relaxed in a sleep undisturbed by the spectres of whatever haunted him. She did wonder, of course, what might the saiyan prince recoil from in dreams, but she didn’t dare ask. Certainly not the things he’d done – those particular ghosts belonged to her – but perhaps all that had been done to him in life? Surely it couldn’t be easy, growing up under the hand of the very same tyrant who’d destroyed your homeworld and your people, and snatched your destiny right out from under you.

                She peered closely at his face, just barely illuminated by the glare from the alarm clock, and sighed. It didn’t look like the face of a murderer, a cold-hearted killer, though she couldn’t say his jutting cheekbones and knife-edged jaw were exactly innocent, either. She cocked her head, thinking of his face in animation; when he spoke, when he laughed or even when he was simply sitting, watching and observing the world around him. Still no, well yes...and at the same time, she didn’t really see it. Was it just that she didn’t want to, she wondered, or were there really two Vegeta personas? She didn’t really think of the latter as true; she’d seen him put his fist through the arlian stranger with nary a thought to it before going right back to his business. Killing wasn’t something that phased him, nor was it something he seemed to revel in, and she realized that it was just something that he did, like sleeping, or wearing clothes, or training. It had to be done, sometimes more than others. It didn’t mean that he didn’t enjoy it sometimes – it was obvious that he did – but it wasn’t something that he deliberately sought out, which she thought was sort of okay. As okay as it could be, under the circumstances.

                So, still dating a killer, who sometimes liked it but mostly did it for necessity, as far as she could tell. And was it the act of killing that mattered, or was it the sometimes but not always enjoying it? Did it make a difference that he never seemed to _hate_ the killing? Bulma sighed and shook her head, wondering yet again where that left her. What that _made_ her. If Vegeta was a bad person, did her loving him also make her a bad person? “Crap.” Bulma said aloud, not really sure what to make of all the questions that were floating in her head. She was no closer to an answer than she had been the first time she’d let Vegeta touch her, watching herself in the steam fogged mirror, wondering when she’d become so wanton.

                She touched his hair again, stroked her fingers gently over his temple and around the curve of his ear, and couldn’t help the smile that spread across her lips. He was a killer, terrifying and lovely all at once, but here in the dark of her bedroom – their bedroom, she supposed – he was hers, and that was all that mattered. The rest could wait.

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                Gohan lay awake, awkwardly stiff in his borrowed bed. Three feet to the left, Piccolo sat crosslegged, hovering about a foot off the floor, lost in deep meditation. It was a little unnerving and had he realized that the Namek did not really sleep, but rather spent the night time hours in a deep sort of meditation, he might have knocked on someone else’s door instead. Initially he’d stood outside Nappa’s room, fist raised and considering what he’d be in for if he spent the night in the old man’s room. They’d had some kind of meat for dinner...so gas for sure. Probably more than just gas, actually. Nappa’s meat farts were legendary, and not just among the saiyans, but across the whole of Frieza’s army. Radditz had once said – he often forgot how young Gohan actually was – that even the whores wouldn’t let Nappa spend the night, not even for triple pay. Of course he’d gotten punched for that, as Nappa had been just around the corner at the time and heard every word. Gohan figured they weren’t _that_ bad, but then again he wasn’t in the habit of hanging around in the bases’ seedier elements, so he couldn’t really ask any ladies for himself. Anyway, thoughts of prostitution aside, Nappa’s greatest weapon was his rotten digestive system, and Gohan already had enough on his mind, what with nearly walking in on his uncle, and worrying that Radditz might not remember to do it on _his own_ bed, in the heat of the moment.

                Slowly, he turned his head and peered at Piccolo, for all appearances dead to the world, but Gohan figured that the namek knew exactly what was going on around him. He turned back to the ceiling, twiddling his thumbs under the blanket. He hadn’t wanted to crash in on his parents, considering what they’d been up to all too frequently as of late, and while Krillin was a nice guy, the fact was that Piccolo, of all the people he was willing to ask, would be the least likely to ask questions. He definitely didn’t want to be the one to explain what his uncle was doing with a shapeshifting cat; that was their mess. Besides that, he’d fought alongside Piccolo, once upon a time, and knew him to be a decent sort of guy, although a bit crusty around the edges. Redminded him a bit of Vegeta, if he was being honest, and that made him feel a bit more comfortable around the intimidating namek. Not completely comfortable, as he was finding out tonight... unnerving, the way he just floated there, not really making noise but not really being silent either. Below the soft, steady rhythm of breath there was a sort of hum, but it wasn’t audible so much as tangible. It was in his skin, in his bones, in the very air of the room, the slightest vibration that set his hair on end and his teeth on edge. It made him nervous, even though he knew that there was nothing to fear. Too long in Frieza’s army had made him suspicious and jumpy. And now that Radditz had Puar, he feared he would be alone again. Not truly or completely, he knew, but for the last two years Radditz had been like a father to him, as well as being his closest friend and confidant, and now...well, Puar would occupy most of his uncle’s time, Gohan was sure, and he wasn’t certain where that would leave him.

                “What _is_ your problem, kid?” Piccolo’s irritated voice cut through his troubled thoughts and Gohan’s head snapped to the side in surprise, to find the Namek glaring at him from his seat in the air. “You’ve been sighing and fiddling over there for the last ten minutes, disrupting my peace and my meditations. So either get it off your chest or shut up. Either way I want you to end up asleep.” Piccolo hesitated, the nasty side of him wanting to add the third option of ‘get out’, and the good side of him restraining, reminding him that for all his power level and misdeeds, Gohan was really just a child and deserving of compassion.

                “I...” Gohan faltered, cowering under the sheets. He looked at Piccolo’s face, a stranger’s face, all angles and teeth, and pulled the blankets more tightly around his shoulders. Something flickered in the namek’s eyes that seemed gentle and kind, that almost made him want to spill is deepest feelings of weakness and fear, but then Piccolo blinked and it was gone again. “I’ll go to sleep.” Gohan mumbled apologetically and turned over in the bed so that his back was facing his unwilling roommate. He curled up and hugged his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut tight in an attempt to force sleep, which as most people know, only makes the insomnia worse, and willed his body still. Behind him, Piccolo snorted and a moment later he heard the door slide open, then shut as Piccolo left his own bedroom in search of a more peaceful place.

 

 

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  Geez, sorry for the delay. I’m not quite sure what happened this time. I received some major time-thieves for my birthday, but the writing has just been hard lately. Everything that is not mindless has been hard lately. Words are not coming like they usually do. I’ll try harder for the next update. It’s an exciting one.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Radditz stretched and eyed the empty second bed, a vague sense of guilt creeping over him. He really hoped that Gohan had found somewhere else to sleep, but he it wasn’t like he felt _that_ bad. Maybe it’d be a different story if he hadn’t gotten any...but tail justified pretty much anything between guys. Well...Gohan wasn’t really a guy yet, but he’d get it, Radditz was sure, even if he didn’t _really_ get it. The big saiyan grinned to himself, breathing in deeply of the scent that clung to the pillows. Puar had snuck out desperately early in the morning, worried that someone would see him make his walk of shame, leaving Radditz to wallow alone in post coital bliss. He couldn’t laze for too long; he’d be expected soon for pre-breakfast training with the others – perhaps he’d apologize to Gohan then – but it was nice to have a moment to relive the night. Plus, if Puar were still in his bed, Radditz wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave it in good time.

                A knock on the door startled him and Radditz grinned as he bade his rumpled looking nephew to enter. “Next time, maybe you could warn me,” Gohan grumbled, tail lashing as he yanked open a dresser drawer and snagged some fresh clothes for the day. “Or better yet, Puar has his own room.”

                “You’re up early.” Radditz said, ignoring the kid’s scathing look as he reached out to ruffle shower-wet hair.

                “Didn’t hardly sleep in the first place.” Gohan muttered, yanking off yesterday’s shirt and switching it out for a new one. “I’m cranky and I’m taking it out on you today.”

                “Bring it on, kid.” Radditz bared his teeth in a saiyan smile. “I feel so good I could take on Frieza today. I’ll beat the snot outta you.” He slipped on a pair of shorts and shoved his feet into his boots, then spun in a circle, trying to locate his chest plate. He found it under the bed and pulled it on, adjusting the fit before grabbing Gohan’s boots and holding them out to him. Gohan shoved them on and tied back his hair, knowing that was the closest thing to an apology as he was going to get. He rolled his eyes and followed his uncle out and toward the training room. Life as usual, among the saiyans.

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                Bulma grimaced down into her coffee, wishing she’d tried harder to sleep during the previous night, instead of letting her mind be overrun by every single little thought and issue that was plaguing her. She’d spent way too long staring at Vegeta in the dark like some creep, willing him to wake up and suddenly be the moral and upstanding man she so wanted him to be, and knowing that it would never, ever happen. And that wasn’t even the half of her night. From there, she’d moved on to worrying over Puar and Radditz, Goku and Chichi, Dr. Gero and the odd spell he’d had so recently, coupled with his increasing hermit behaviour. Not to mention poor, harried Sixteen, who looked more and more drawn every time she saw him, which she hadn’t actually thought possible considering the fact that he was one hundred percent machine. Maybe it wasn’t so much in his looks, she reflected, but his manner. Always quiet, the hulking android had become even more reserved than usual, seeming almost to shrink into himself amidst the boisterous presence of his Red Station cohabitants. And she worried about the resistance, too, about how all those faceless contacts were faring, and about how she and her comrades had done next to nothing for the past several months in terms of anti-Frieza operations aside from the work they’d been doing on the gravity room and ki-imitating weaponry and armour systems, which were long term solutions and no good in the immediate war on the tyrant emperor. And though she had tried to convince herself that devoting all of her energy to those two paths was in the end the best use of her time, she still felt guilty.

                Add to that the worry she felt for Guru, whom she had not heard from for weeks now, at least. The raid on his compound was no secret and she’d heard that he had escaped, though why he hadn’t attempted to contact either Blue or Vengeance was a bit of a mystery that worried her, and she’d felt even guiltier for putting her namekian friends so far from her mind in her concern over her personal life. If she had been more observant, maybe she would have realized sooner that since Guru had fallen completely off the radar, the leak had also stopped. Nothing of Vengeance’s identity, the stolen ki-technology, or their plans for the GR had ever surfaced in the resistance channels or come out of Frieza’s camp from their spies.

                Bulma felt sick, recalling again the realization she’d made in the middle of the night, and worried anew at Guru’s silence. She didn’t believe for even a second that the old sage himself was behind all the leaked information, but someone in his camp certainly was. If that person was Ginyu disguised, as Vegeta believed, then it meant that Guru was in grave danger and maybe not even aware of it. “He’s Guru,” she said aloud into her coffee-dark reflection, “of course he knows. Doesn’t he?”

                “Doesn’t Guru know what?” Puar asked, sitting down across the table from Bulma, looking a little self conscious in his humanoid form. “That a new pot?” He gestured at the coffee and when Bulma nodded, he got up again and poured himself a cup.

                “Not much sleep last night?” She asked, smiling into her mug as Puar sat down again. He glared at her, cheeks turning pink, and she grinned outright before answering his question. “The leak, I figured it out last night. Well, not exactly who...but anyway, I’d suspected for a while that maybe it wasn’t someone on Red Station. Last night I realized all the leaked information was stuff that we’d learned from or shared with Guru, and nothing’s gotten out since his communication with the rest of the universe. It’s someone in his camp.” She cocked her head and sighed. “And I’m worried because Vegeta thinks it’s Captain Ginyu disguised as one of the nameks.”

                “Ooh, that’s bad.” Puar frowned and took a huge gulp of his coffee, pulling a face at the bitterness, and got up to grab some sugar.

                “Ah, sorry, I made it really strong.” Bulma laughed. “I didn’t get so much sleep either.” They sat together in silence for a moment, each waiting for the caffeine to kick in and resume normal functioning in their tired brains. “Soooo,” Bulma looked slyly up at Puar after about a minute or so. “How’s Radditz?”

                “...Persistent...energetic.” He shifted, wincing, and Bulma nearly burst out laughing. “Bossy.” Puar added, and she couldn’t help the giggles that followed.

                 “Yeah, they’re like that, saiyans. But things are okay, right?”

                “I think so. Pretty sure, at least. He didn’t freak out, if that’s what you mean.” Puar shrugged, still embarrassed despite the fact that Bulma was privy to pretty much everything that had gone on between them, thanks to all those emails he’d made her read. “Does Vegeta ever bite you?” He blurted suddenly. “Or is Radditz just weird?”

                “All the time.” Bulma rolled her eyes. “I feel like I’m in a national geographic special, with that and all the growling that goes on. Goku does it too; Chichi told me.”

                “Goku? For real?” Puar laughed and took a gulp of his coffee. “I guess I can see that, though I’m not sure I wanted to know. I won’t ever be able to look at him the same way.”

                “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t been able to look at him the same way since I found out Chichi was pregnant with Gohan.”

                “Hey,” Chichi happened to be standing in the doorway, catching them both as Puar had caught Bulma earlier. “No talking about Goku while I’m not here.”

                “Well apparently you _were_ here, so we’re fine.” Puar tossed back, and gestured toward the pot of coffee. “Caffeine?” He grinned, seeing the bags beneath her eyes.

                “Oh yes, please!” Chichi let out an emphatic groan. “I was up waaaay too late last night.” It was her turn to grin, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. “Doing _exactly_ what your dirty minds are thinking right now?” She waited until the laughter died down before pouring her cup, lest the tremors running through her body cause her to spill.

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                Guru slumped in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling the strain of tiredness running through him. He’d been more or less alert since the day they’d escaped from Frieza’s forces and though as a namek he didn’t really sleep, he hadn’t had a chance to rest his mind and restore his spirits. He was troubled, certain of what was to come and yet worried for his tiny flock, worried for little Dende, who was the only one among them who would be truly capable of inheriting all his knowledge and responsibility. The boy was a marvel; it hurt Guru’s heart to think of all that the child could have achieved, had he the chance to grow up on Namek, and still perhaps this challenge and upheaval would be the backbone of Dende’s future greatness. Guru himself had grown in peace, learned the ways of patience and kindness, but Dende would be shaped by different forces and would either become strong, or fail entirely. Guru had seen this in his meditations, and while he ached for the tender little boy he’d come to see as his own son, he also saw the intelligence, the depth of potential and power in the child, and knew that he would be all right.

                The people of Red Station were good and kind, they were strong of mind and heart, and Guru had no doubt that Dende would be well raised among them. Though still, as any parent, Guru wished he had more time. There was still so much to be done, and it saddened him that he would not see his life’s work completed. All he could do was to trust in those around him, that they would do as he thought they might.

                Guru looked at the flight pattern on screen and felt his heart grow slow and heavy. They were almost upon Red Station, which meant he surely did not have much longer in this dimension. He would miss it, he thought suddenly, even though he’d grown old, grown fat and weak and pained by life. He would miss it all.

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                Goku wheezed and dropped to the floor like a stone, clutching his stomach as his brother crowed with laughter in the air above. Training with the Saiyans was the worst, he thought as he watched Gohan evade an attack before swiping out quickly with his foot to catch Radditz in the knee. They were brutal, mean fighters, giving no quarter to an opponent, even in mock battles like this one. If everyone wasn’t at least bleeding by the end, they didn’t consider it a good training session. Gohan and Radditz had tried to explain the healing factor to him, and looking back at his own life, he knew it to be true, but he still didn’t like it. Grandpa Gohan had taught him that training was for bettering one’s technique, so this philosophy of ‘beat each other like hell so that we’ll jump in strength as we heal’ was foreign and strange to him.

                And secretly, though he didn’t like to travel down this unflattering train of thought, Goku was simply not used to being the weakest. On Earth, he’d been the guy that everyone else looked up to, the one who called the shots and saved the day. He knew now that it was because he’d been a saiyan in the midst of humans, but against these other saiyans, he felt like a lump. Even Gohan seemed to have surpassed him, and while he was beyond proud that his son should prove so powerful, it was embarrassing to be knocked to the ground, over and over, by an eight year old. Especially awful was the look on his son’s face, the apologetic wince, mingled with a horror at seeing how weak his father really was. Goku felt shame pool in his belly as he uncurled, panting, and watched the twin blurs of his son and brother, bounding back and forth as they sparred. Gohan didn’t need to be partnered, he was holding his own easily, even though Radditz did seem unusually spry this particular morning, as though he’d drunk testosterone for breakfast.

                Goku felt his brother’s power, picked it out from the other three in the room, and knew that he could be that strong and more, if only he could surpass the strange wall that seemed to have sprung up in his body. He could feel the potential in himself, knew that given time he could best even Nappa’s strength, but when he pushed hard, it felt as though his body was shutting down around him. His chest ached, his limbs grew tingly, his vision blurred, and he’d be left gasping for air, as he was now, while the others fought on without him. Chichi saw how he struggled of course – he’d forgotten how perceptive she was – and begged him to talk to someone about it, worried for his health. He’d refused, embarrassed, and she’d nagged for a time, until he’d growled at her – an honest to goodness, animal growl – surprising both of them and maybe scaring her a little so that she’d stopped talking about it. He felt a bit guilty about that, but was so relieved that she’d stopped bothering him that he’d just let the whole thing be. He didn’t like thinking about it and when he did, simply categorized it as another challenge that he could, and would, overcome.

                Goku got to his feet, trying to hurry his achy body along, and shook the numbness from his limbs. He took a deep breath, firmly ignoring the pain that lanced through his collarbone, and launched himself back into the air.

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                “Bulma! Bulma come quick!” Oolong panted, leaning his pudgy little form against the door frame. He cast Puar a surprised look, shaking his head as he realized who he was eyeing, and got back to the matter at hand. “There’s a weird ship approaching, and it won’t respond to any of our hails. Hasn’t made any attempt to communicate with us, but the computers say it’s headed straight for us. We think it intends to dock here.”

                Bulma was out of her chair in about five seconds, ushering the pig down the hallway, with Chichi and Puar following right behind them. “Your dad said to come get you, and even that old kook Gero agreed.” Oolong puffed out between breaths, the importance of the situation lending him more stamina than he was accustomed to, though still not enough that he could walk so briskly and talk comfortably at the same time. “Thought you might recognize the type, maybe know where it’s coming from.”

                She did not, as it turned out, have a clue as to the origins of the weird, spiky, white craft. She tried hailing it again, despite her father’s assurances that he’d done so several times already, and again received no response. Dr. Gero sneered, the ‘told you so’ strong enough in his eyes that he didn’t have to say it. In any case, Sixteen’s hand was resting firm on his shoulder and the grim look on his face told Bulma that maybe the old doctor wasn’t so in charge as he liked to act. “Damn.” She cursed, fingers flying over the keyboard as she ordered the computers to run a full scan. “They’re running some kind of communications block, judging from the readings I’m getting. Likely our attempts aren’t even getting through.” She tapped her nails against the console, thinking hard. “Someone go get Vegeta,” she said, and when they all looked at their shoes and pretended not to have heard her, she pointed at Krillin, who’d just walked in the door to see what all the commotion was about. “Krillin, go get Vegeta.”

                “You kidding? The saiyans are training, man. He’ll kill me if I interrupt.”

                “Krillin, just do it. See this ship?” Bulma pointed at the screen, “We have no idea where it’s coming from, but it’s going to dock with us in...oh, say ten or fifteen minutes.” She snapped, jabbing the display now and leaving smudgy fingerprints. “So. Go. Get. Vegeta.” She finished with a glare, and Krillin slunk off, muttering about how he always got stuck with the crappy jobs. He didn’t have to go far, however, because he ran into the troupe of saiyans, Vegeta in the lead, on their way up from the training deck.

                “What’s going on?” The saiyan prince demanded, without preamble. “There is something out there.” He glared at the nearest window port, as though willing whatever it was to come into view, and Krillin noticed that all five of them were tense, though Vegeta fairly crackled with nerves. “Something strong. I cannot place it.” He frowned down at Krillin, who could do no more than shrug, his heart thumping as Vegeta’s uneasiness began to infect him as well.

                “Mystery ship.” He said, turning back the way he’d come and gesturing for them to follow. “Bulma sent me to get you; she thought you might recognize it or maybe know of its origins.” Vegeta grunted and they trailed back to the ship’s control center in silence, Piccolo appearing from somewhere and falling into step beside Goku just as they were walking in.

                “Nothing I can recall.” Vegeta said, his frustration evident as he examined the ship on the screen. His tail was twitching restlessly around his calves, a sure sign that he was unsettled. “It is so familiar...” he muttered, no longer looking at the screen but appearing to be focused completely on something inside, and Krillin realized that he was talking about whatever power he could feel radiating from the ship. Krillin understood his frustration – he could feel it too, but for whatever reason, he could not place it. Perhaps it was the distance, or something to do with the communications blockage engulfing the ship, but he could tell just by looking around the room that it was making everyone a little nervous.

                “It is...” Piccolo paused, and the Earthlings could hear the ripples of whatever remained of Kami in his voice, “It is a namekian ship.” He was frowning at the screen. “So very old, like the one I used to come to Earth.”

                “Guru!” Bulma gasped. “It must be Guru and the others.” A cheer went up around the room, relief spreading through the small crowd that had gathered, but Bulma’s face remained tight. If she’d been right in her musings last night, it was entirely possible that the mole, that Captain Ginyu, was on that ship.

                “ _That’s_ who it is!” Krillin laughed, slapping his own forehead with one open palm. “It’s Nail!” He let out a whooshing breath, as though it contained all the tension and fear he’d been holding. Beside him, Vegeta stiffened.

                “That,” he said quietly, but in such a firm, terrifying voice that everyone stopped to listen, “is _not_ Nail.” Bulma was watching him and felt her guts curdle at the look of dawning horror that had crossed his features. The pieces were falling into place, and now he knew why the power level was so familiar and yet so difficult to place. He hadn’t seen the other man since before he’d learned to sense ki.

                “Of course it is.” Krillin insisted, though he sounded completely unsure of himself. “I met him...who else could it be?”

                “Ginyu.” Bulma breathed. “Oh shit, it was him the whole time.” She shrieked as a tremor rocked the floor beneath her feet and knew that the namekian ship was docking, even as they spoke.

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                Ginyu trembled with anticipation, waiting for the airlocks to finish their business and close up so that he and the annoying green fleshbags around him could finally get off the damn ship. He had his scouter tucked securely in his pocket, one hand ready to grab it out and slap it on the side of his head at a moment’s notice if need be. Vengeance was out there, he could feel it in his bones, and not a moment too soon. He was ready to explode with all the endless waiting he’d been doing on board that archaic, useless piece of shit starship. He was itching for a fight, absolutely raging for some bloodshed, for some resolution to this damn, boring-as-all-hell assignment.

                Ginyu looked around the room at all the excited faces of his companions, all of them eager to be free of their confinement, all feeling as thought they’d escaped Frieza’s clutches once more, and tried to decide what order he’d kill them in. Dende first, he mused, imagining the boy’s delicate neck beneath his crushing fingers, and then thought better of it. First he’d take out Guru, disgusting old fool, and he’d make the boy watch. He’d make all of them watch, and then pick them off one by one and leave the annoying brat for the very last. “See,” he’d say as he broke each bone in the kid’s body, one by one, “you were right about me all along, and look what good it did you.” A hideous grin spread across his face as he fingered the scouter in his pocket. A ship full of dead nameks, and Vengeance taken care of all in one day; he couldn’t wait to get back to Frieza and his precious squad. He’d left Burter in charge of choreography while he was gone, but in the end he really didn’t trust anyone but himself to finalize their moves, and he’d grown rusty in his time spent on the ship.

                Had he been paying attention to his surroundings instead of fantasizing about the imminent deaths of every single one of his travel companions, Ginyu would have seen that Dende was watching his every move, every gesture, every little twitch of his eyelids and taking note. Dende’s suspicion of Nail had grown with every minute spent on Guru’s antique of a space ship, and he was determined to speak to Guru once there was some privacy to be found. He just hoped that things didn’t explode beyond his control before that happened.

                Guru’s hand lay, suddenly and heavily, on his little shoulder and he turned, startled, to find that his master was also watching the twitchy, wound up form of Nail. “Dende,” he rasped, tearing his eyes from the man to settle them on the boy, “you must tell them that I am sorry.” He said, softly enough so that none around them could hear. “That there was no other way.”

                “What do you mean, Guru? Tell who?” Dende felt a strange sort of dread arise within himself, feeling with complete certainty that his life was about to change forever. He grasped at the old sage’s hand, imploring, as though Guru had the power to stop whatever awful thing was hurtling toward them, even as he saw that the old man had resigned himself to this fate, whatever it was. “Guru, please!” He hissed, recognizing even through his panic that it was important to keep this from the ears of the others. “What’s going to happen?” He asked, though Guru simply smiled and patted him on the head.

                “I apologize to you as well, my boy.” Guru whispered. “I know you will do well.” He said, and then there was no more time for talk, as the doors sprang open with the protesting creak of machinery long dormant.  

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                Vegeta rushed into the docking bay just as the namekian ship creaked open, Bulma right on his heels even though he’d expressly forbidden her to follow. Behind her came his men and Red Station’s own contingent of fighters, and behind them the old Doctor, with a crazy look in his eyes that Vegeta didn’t quite trust, but ignored for the moment due to the urgency of the situation. Breathless with the speed of their movement, Bulma was explaining to the others what he’d told her about Ginyu’s body-snatching ability, cautioning them not to trust anyone that came out of the ship, even though they knew it was most likely Nail who was actually Ginyu in disguise. He could have, as Vegeta had informed them, easily stolen another namek’s body.

                “How does he do it?” Gohan asked suddenly, surprising everyone except his three saiyan guardians, Goku not included in that number, with the calm way he spoke.

                “I’m not entirely sure.” Vegeta admitted, keeping his eyes on the slowly opening doorway and tugging his gloves more firmly onto his hands. “It’s some kind of beam; it shoots from his mouth, connects to his victim also through the mouth.” At this Radditz sniggered and Gohan elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m not sure if you have to have your mouth open for it to work, or if he can get in anyway. Either way, just dodge that fucking beam when it happens.” He stepped forward, tensing up as a shadow appeared in the ship’s doorway and Nail stepped out, scouter clapped to the side of his head. There was no more doubt.

                Vegeta took off like a shot, screaming toward the green man, who bounded backwards and out of the way as the other nameks streamed out of the ship, right into the saiyan’s path. “Over here!” Bulma called and they scrambled toward, her, frightened eyes glued to the laughing Nail, all wondering if the oddness that they had sensed from him was in fact something much more sinister. Vegeta cursed a blue streak as he was forced to halt his path to let the confused and frightened nameks scurry out of harm’s way. Only Guru and Dende were left in the ship’s doorway, the child clinging to the robes of the elder, watching the conflict unfold with wide eyes.

                “Vegeta?” The false namek crowed, tossing his head back to laugh. “Oh shit, Vegeta, you cocky son of a bitch, you’ve really got into it this time, haven’t you?” He tapped some buttons on his scouter, reading Vegeta’s power level with some surprise, and then a smirk. “Well, well, gotten a bit stronger, have we? Good, I was looking for a challenge!”

                “Get out of here!” A raspy old voice crowed, and Vegeta was surprised to see crusty old Dr. Gero step up beside him, the old man cracking his knuckles as though preparing for a brawl.

                “Get back, old fool!” Vegeta commanded, but Gero didn’t even spare him a glance, and Vegeta found the other fighters stepping forward too. Fuck it, he thought. If the old man had a death wish, who was he to deny it?

                “Oooh, dissention among the ranks?” Ginyu taunted and sprang forward a little, striking a pose with one arm in the air as he landed. “Well then, other folks, I don’t believe we’ve met!” He twisted, bringing one leg up in a painful looking stretch, holding it there with his other hand. “My name is Captain Ginyu!” He moved again, this time executing a graceful backflip and landing on the tips of his toes. “And I am here to – FUCK!” He swore as Vegeta ploughed into him, completely ruining his choreography and interrupting his introduction. “I’ll kill you for that, monkey boy!” He snarled, recovering his balance as Vegeta came at him again. “And not only that,” he dodged the oncoming blow and struck out with his foot, knocking the saiyan backward, “I’ll kill all your little friends, too.” He grinned and fired a beam of ki, striking the nearest namek through the head, and showering those around him with dripping, purple blood. The others screamed and trembled, clutching at each other with wide, terrified eyes, as though clinging together could save them from the same fate.

                “Snare!” Dende shrieked from inside the ship’s doorway, and he streaked across the hangar toward the fallen body, crumpling to the floor in a crying heap as he realized he was too late to help. Even his healing abilities, powerful as they were, could not bring men back from the dead.

                “C’mon, get up!” A voice was saying and he looked up, belatedly realizing that someone was tugging at his blood-soaked robes, urging him to his feet. It was the smallest saiyan, looking calm and deadly even though he appeared hardly older than Dende himself. “You have to go in there, where it’s safe.” He was gesturing toward the open doorway and gently trying to push Dende toward it, to follow the others, spurred to action by fear and horror. Sixteen was quite literally shoving a protesting Dr. Gero through the door. Bulma latched on from the other side and hauled him through, while Sixteen doubled back quickly to grab the body of the dead namek.

                “No,” Dende managed, tugging himself away from Gohan’s propelling grip. “Guru’s still out there. I won’t go without him!” He broke away and tried to run for the ship, but found himself halted after a mere two steps.

                “Don’t be a dumbass, kid!” A gruff voice snapped and before Dende could do anything about it, he was being hefted up by the back of his robes and quite literally tossed through the door by Radditz, who was certainly a lot less polite about it that Gohan. “You’ll just get in our way and fuck things up!” He snapped, turning away even as he spoke. Dende landed with a thump and sprang back up, just in time to see the door slammed in his face by a tall namek he did not recognize.

                “We’ll keep him safe.” The stranger said, an odd mix of kindness and impatience in his voice as though he didn’t quite know which feeling to act upon. He’d gone quickly then, the door shutting and everyone on the other side ignoring Dende’s little fists hammering against the metal, his choking sobs as he threw himself again and again at the door. Bulma came over and put her hand on his shoulder as he sank against the barrier, drew him away from the door and onto a nearby chair, where she cradled him against herself like the child he was, whispering reassurances and trying to convince him that everything would be okay. She said, over and over, that Vegeta and the others would save Guru, but Dende knew that she was wrong. He knew that they would try, and he knew that they would fail, all with a certainty that frightened him beyond belief. Guru had often spoken of fate, of meditating in order to see the path before oneself, and Dende suddenly understood the odd and frightening conversation he’d had with the old man as they had docked. Guru would not survive to see the end of the day, and he’d known it all along. Dende had never felt more helpless and more useless in his life, knowing that the man who’d cared for him since he was a hatchling was about to die, and he could do nothing about it.

                He sat in Bulma’s arms and listened to the muffled screams and shouts, his antennae twitching with each burst of power, wondering if that would be the one to end his master’s life. He sniffled and cried, not bothering to hide his tears, and prayed that it would be over quickly.


	33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  Not much to say today. I am hoping that this turned out as well as I wanted it to.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Dr. Gero flinched and struggled against Sixteen’s grip as another crash reverberated through the lower docks. “Let me go!” He shrieked, tugging so hard that Bulma thought he might rip his own arm right out of the socket. “Now, I say! Listen to me, you useless bucket of bolts!”

                “Please calm down, father.” Sixteen said calmly, no emotions on his face though the watching company flinched with each worsening insult. The big android still refused to release his hold.

                “You stupid piece of junk! I should have scrapped you for parts, like I did Nineteen!” The old man wailed as the station rumbled. “They’re going to ruin my ship! My precious Red Station, my beautiful experiments, and you’re just going to let them, aren’t you? You’re jealous!” He rounded on Sixteen, no longer tugging, but now advancing on his so-called son, hissing venom worse than the most poisonous snake. “You don’t want them to be born, do you? My true children, my precious ones, they’re going to die if the station is ruined! That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Dr. Gero jabbed Sixteen in the chest, hard enough to make a sound, with his free hand. Sixteen neither flinched nor changed expression.

                “Doctor Gero!” Bulma gasped, glaring at the old man. She’d have stood up and given him a good slap if she could have, but Dende was still cradled on her lap, inconsolable. She thought briefly of handing him off to her mother, but his fingers were clutched so tight in her sweater that she thought he might tear right through it if she tried.

                “And you!” Dr. Gero whirled, his movement made awkward by the fact that one arm was still firmly clamped between Sixteen’s hands. “You...you...” He sputtered. “This is YOUR fault. Ever since you and your band of rats came aboard,” he gestured wildly at Bulma and her parents, Tien, Puar, Oolong and Roshi, “inviting all kinds of riff-raff in here, filling up my precious place with filthy saiyans, minions of Frieza! And now this!” He snarled and lunged, tried to anyway, but Sixteen held him back. “You will be the death of us all!”

                “Father!” Sixteen gasped, looking helplessly around at his companions, plainly at a loss for what to do.

                “Shut your mouth, you old coot!” Bulma shrieked back, worried in the pit of her stomach that he might just be right. “This is not the time!” She cuddled the boy closer, afraid that if she didn’t keep her arms around him, she might just jump up and start swinging. Dende buried his face into her shoulder. “Look, you old shit,” Bulma made a show of rubbing his back, “you’re scaring him!”

                “Little urchin, what do I care?” The old man sneered. “Crybaby. Whiner. Inferior little mmmph!” He squealed and cursed, nasty words muffled by Sixteen’s big hand, clamped firmly over his mouth.

.

                In the hangar, Vegeta snorted as Radditz hit the wall with a thump. Ginyu had obviously had time to accustom himself to Nail’s body and while in the namek form he was not the strongest of opponents, he was quick and agile, able to dodge the must slower attacks of hulking Radditz and Nappa. Vegeta hung back, watching and studying, not so foolish as to jump in without warning...aside from messing up the idiot captain’s choreography, which was an opportunity too good to pass up. Vegeta had always enjoyed getting in Captain Ginyu’s way – he hated the other’s flamboyant style, his boasting and ridiculous poses, the way he turned the art of fighting into an absolute farce. Being one of Frieza’s favourite pets had the unfortunate side effect of blowing one’s ego up so far that it threatened to explode all over everyone else in a shower of pompous garbage. Vegeta himself was arrogant as sin, but he’d never exactly been an obedient little pet and he certainly had more pride than to dance about like a lunatic, proclaiming his prowess over all things to everyone within earshot.

                “Enough of this.” He muttered to himself, watching Nappa fall to his knees after a particularly nasty kick to the back. Vegeta had backed off to let his men try their hand, electing to watch and study Ginyu’s moves from the side. Had the use of their full arsenal been an option, he was sure his two subordinates could have long since taken the stubborn Ginyu down, but luckily for everyone on the station, those involved in the fight were smart enough to know that a too-powerful ki blast could easily blow a hole right through the thick metal if dodged or deflected, and no one felt like being sucked out into the vacuum of space to their doom. As it was, there were dents in some of the walls from bodily impacts, and one of the spines on the namek ship had been bent to a precarious angle after a nasty collision with Nappa’s butt. “Gohan, Kakarott,” he snapped at the two standing obediently behind him, waiting their turn. Krillin and Piccolo had taken Vegeta’s orders with less grace, but had bowed to his greater experience.  It wasn’t a big space and while everyone was itching for the fight, it was not wise to allow everyone to attack all at once. There was too much potential for damage and Vegeta did not intend for them all to remain stuck in a space station with their only modes of transport all smashed to bits, while Frieza’s forces made their way on over. “Guru is still trapped within the namekian vessel. You two will retrieve him and see him safe beyond the door with the others.” Gohan nodded and was off in a flash, but Goku remained behind, twiddling his thumbs.

                “Umm, Vegeta...uh...sir...” he looked longingly at the fight, felt his fingers twitch and his power level jump. He wasn’t used to following orders and he definitely wasn’t used to sitting out. “I was hoping that maybe I could...uh...fight?” He finished on a high note, debating the wisdom of his speech as Vegeta turned to glare.

                “Kakarott. Do you honestly think I have not noticed your secret writhings, the oh-so-carefully hidden clutching of your limbs, the catching of your breath?” Vegeta shook his head. “Do you wish to die, so soon after your life has been given back to you? Go and do as I say.” He cocked his head toward Gohan, who was darting across the battlefield.

                “Uhm...ah...sure.” Goku shrank back a little from Vegeta’s venom and started awkwardly away, not at all certain that he liked this whole _being a saiyan_ thing. Sure, it was nice to have knowledge of his heritage and family, and he was eternally grateful that they’d cared for Gohan in his absence...but if being saiyan meant always having to do what Vegeta said, well that wasn’t so great. Beyond that though, he thought as he got further from the prince, was the fact that he hadn’t even given a second thought to the crippling attacks that had been plaguing his body. He’d seen the fighting, felt the call to arms in his veins, and hadn’t even considered the fact that he might die. Without Earth’s dragonballs to resurrect him, he would stay dead. A nagging sense of guilt – a foreign feeling – whispered at the back of his brain. Wasn’t that what Chichi had been talking about, when she spoke to him of putting his family first? They didn’t need him to fight Ginyu; Radditz and Nappa were doing fine and if Vegeta stepped in, the whole thing would be over. It wasn’t like his participation or lack thereof would decide the battle. So why, he wondered, was he so eager to jump on in?

                .

                Ginyu wheezed as pain lanced through his lower back, courtesy of the saiyan foot lodged in his lumbar. “Ahh, V’geta!” Nappa grinned at the sprawled form of Ginyu and cracked his knuckles as the prince landed neatly nearby, not affected in the least that he’d just finished launching himself off of his opponent. “You’ve decided to join the fun!”

                “Pfft, fun?” Vegeta cocked his head and watched Ginyu right himself. “I’ve come to stop you from embarrassing yourselves too much. You should have finished with this weakling ages ago!”

                “Awww, but –” Radditz whined, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one.

                “Oh, shut up Radditz.” Vegeta sighed, shaking his head. “The both of you are wasting my time. I know you’re slow, but surely even you two should understand that the scouter on the side of his head is probably transmitting every last breath of this conversation right back to Frieza – that’s right, you slimy lizard, it was me!” he called, before resuming his earlier sentence, “Along with our exact coordinates. So forgive me if I want to finish this before we are up to our necks in soldiers. Now stay out of my way and keep an eye out in case he gets desperate and decides to blow a hole in the station.”

                Ginyu wiped his mouth to hide a smile as he prepared to face off against Vegeta. Really, he couldn’t have planned this any better! The saiyan prince was strong, among the most powerful warriors in Frieza’s empire, and now that he’d gone and become a traitor, well Frieza would surely not mind if someone else happened to inhabit that formidable body. Ginyu had wondered what he’d do once Nail outlived his usefulness, now that his old body was dead and gone. The namek body was alright, very tough for one of his species, but incomparable to the horned god he’d been, and with most of the premier bodies in the universe already occupied by Frieza’s warriors...well, he’d been left with few options.

                Ginyu dusted his pants off, eager to be free of them too – he missed his short shorts, so tight and form fitting and easy to fight in. Not like these stupid baggy things, and what was with the namek shoes, while he was at it? So damn long and pointy; he had to be careful not to trip. “Vegeta, Vegeta...”he tsked shifting “Give me a bit of a challenge, will you? Your little followers here were disappointing.” He gestured dismissively at the other two snarling saiyans and crooked a finger at Vegeta. “Come here, and I’ll make sure you regret ever turning traitor.”

                “Hah, turning? What makes you think I was ever loyal in the first place?” Vegeta laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. He sneered at his opponent, seeing not the green skinned namek, but the purple, horned thing who’d helped make his life a living hell. He knew he’d have to be vigilant in this fight, not let his guard down for a single second lest Ginyu get the idea in his head to try out that damn sneaky body snatching technique. The problem in it was that Ginyu did not switch bodies often and while Vegeta had been there when Ginyu took the purple body he was best known for, he hadn’t been close, nor had he been paying much attention at the time and was therefore unfamiliar with the precursors to the switching beam. He wasn’t sure what to look out for, exactly, and was worried that if he stayed on Ginyu, right in close to him, he might not have time to dodge if and when it came. That was another reason he’d dismissed Radditz and Nappa, and forbade Kakarott and Gohan from joining the fight. More bodies meant more confusion, and Vegeta did not relish the idea of having to slaughter a saiyan body because it contained a foreign soul.

.

                Guru was weak and wheezing, the stress of their arrival at Red Station having taken its toll on the old man. All along he’d known it was the only option, but seeing his plan come to fruition and dealing with the effects and losses it would cause was harder than he ever could have imagined. Snare was dead, Vengeance’s identity revealed and the coordinates of Red Station exposed, and it rested squarely on his shoulders, all because he’d been too foolish to see what was going on sooner. Guilt pressed heavily down upon him, with the knowledge that he’d brought Ginyu here knowing that Vegeta would kill him, all in a bizarre circumvention of the code he lived by that prevented him from doing the deed himself.

                “I am sorry.” He whispered to the two saiyans at his side. “I could not do it myself, nor order one of my followers...I am sorry. Vegeta...he...”

                “Vegeta will do what needs to be done.” Gohan said, with startling sureness. “Now hush, conserve your strength. We need to get you somewhere safer.”

                “It’s clear for now,” Goku said, peeking out the door to watch the blurs of motion that were Vegeta and Ginyu, “but we’d better hurry.” He rushed back in to join his son in the awkward business of manoeuvring Guru’s bulk. They were both strong enough to lift him easily, but his size made it difficult. In the end they joined hands and fashioned an awkward, lop-sided sort of swing to carry the old sage across the hangar.

.

                Vegeta rushed Ginyu, lashing out in a flurry of punches and then darting backward again before the captain had a chance to mount a proper counter attack. It wasn’t a strategy that Vegeta particularly liked the use of, but the threat of Ginyu’s special ability loomed large over their battle and the prince was hesitant to stay in close quarters for too long. It was especially annoying, knowing that the fight was taking longer because of it. While Frieza himself was far away, his reach extended throughout this portion of the universe and depending on the call that went out, the first battalions could begin arriving within hours. Not likely, due to the strength of the threat and the sheer number of regular forces needed to combat it, but still possible, and Vegeta was loathe to waste the time.

                Ginyu snarled, reaching out with Nail’s long limbs and trying to grab a hold of Vegeta before he could get away, but the damn monkey was too fast for him and he missed. It wasn’t as though he was doing horribly – he’d landed several blows and was holding his own, but when the hell had Vegeta grown so strong? He was actually beginning to worry about the outcome of the fight, and it was a situation that Ginyu did not find himself in very often. The last time, in fact, was when he’d acquired his favourite of all the bodies he’d inhabited, and that was over a decade ago. He’d lost track of the number of years – it was easy to do when you’d been alive for a few centuries, hopping from body to body as youth and usefulness expired.

                Ginyu tensed as his scouter blipped, dodging just in time as Vegeta swung in from behind, this time managing to latch on to the prince’s arm, hauling him back to slam his knee into saiyan kidneys. “That’s for earlier, you monkey piece of shit.” He hissed as Vegeta arched in pain, “And this is just because I want to!” He socked the saiyan in the face, knocking him back a few yards.

                “Pah.” Vegeta spat a mouthful of blood on the ground – no teeth bounced off the rubber matting. He ran his tongue around his mouth, wiggled a loose molar with his tongue, and clamped his jaw together to shove it back into place. “That the best you got?” He grinned a bloody smile and launched forward, “Because I’m going to let you know right now, it’s not going to be good enough.”

                “Such a cocky little bastard.” Ginyu shook his head and sneered, surprised that Vegeta had recovered so quickly from the hit to the back. It hadn’t exactly been a pulled punch. He met the prince head on in the air and to those watching, they became a blur of moving bodies, trading kicks and punches, block for block, so quickly that it was difficult to tell who was who from below.“You know, for the longest time I never understood what Frieza saw in you, but now I get it. You’re always telling jokes, Vegeta.” Ginyu panted, jumping back and trying to break away from the action for a moment. Vegeta was relentless, however, allowing his opponent not a moment’s rest. “Every king needs a jester.” He managed, just before Vegeta’s kick connected and he was sent flying sideways into the wall.

                Ginyu’s shoulder hit with a crack, and he fell to the ground gasping and arching with the pain that lanced through his arm and collarbone. He coughed and hissed as the movement jarred the broken bones. “Shit.” He snarled, dizzily struggling to his feet and preparing for the next onslaught. It would have to be soon – there was no way he could continue to fight effectively with a broken arm and a collarbone that was at least cracked, if not worse. And there would be no way that Vegeta could hit back either, once in this severely damaged body. He’d be easy prey, and Ginyu would have himself a fine, new body. Not quite as dignified or impressive as his old one, but strong and good enough to serve him until something better came along.

                Vegeta watched Ginyu slide down the wall from above. He’d heard the crunch of bone beneath the shriek of protesting metal and knew that the body snatcher was gravely injured. Nothing fatal, of course, but the other man’s ability to fight would be severely hindered, going hand to hand as they were. Then again, the prince reasoned, the injury might just make him more dangerous, more desperate. With no chance of winning, he’d have to be on the lookout not only for the switching technique, but also for the possibility that Ginyu when faced with death, might just decide to blow a hole in Red Station and take them all down with him.

                “Nappa, Radditz!” Vegeta called out, keeping his eyes trained on the not-quite-namek. “Loph yan!Rok se Braks!”

                “Did you catch that, Dad?” Gohan panted as he and his father quick-stepped their way across the hangar, crossing right under the prince. Goku grunted from the other side of Guru’s bulk, and Gohan took that for a no. “He said to watch Ginyu, and to guard the walls. Did you see what happened? Ginyu must be looking desperate.”

                “Is Vegeta going to kill him, do you think?” Goku asked, peeking around the green man’s massive stomach to catch his son’s eye.

                “Pfft.” Gohan snorted, adjusting his grip. “I would. And Vegeta’s too smart to leave him alive. That power he’s got makes him dangerous to us, even if we kept him prisoner.”

                “Ahh, right.” Goku nodded solemnly and cast a glance up at the prince, standing in midair as easily as if he were on solid ground, feet spread and arms crossed. He wondered what it was like, to kill someone on purpose, in cold blood, but knew it wasn’t the sort of question he could really ask. Gohan would get all quiet and withdrawn on him, and the other saiyans were sure to just laugh.

                “Ginyu’s a rat, Dad.” Gohan said, misinterpreting the awkward silence. “Don’t bother feeling sorry for him. He’d kill us all in a heartbeat, if he could.”

                Vegeta, oblivious to the conversation taking place below him, was still watching Ginyu, trying to gauge the exact extent of his opponent’s injuries. He couldn’t leave the other man with too much opportunity at this critical stage in battle, nor did he want to end up caught in a trap if Ginyu wasn’t as hurt as he appeared to be. On the other hand was the desire to finish his opponent quickly so that he could sort out the mess he’d found himself in, before Frieza’s men arrived to help him with the task. Ginyu, he knew, was undoubtedly entertaining the same train of thought down below, trying to see a way through the mire and muck that they’d gotten into while still coming out on top.

                Ginyu tensed as Vegeta dove, the saiyan prince heading straight for him. He held his breath, counting the seconds and gauging the time before he could attempt his special technique and steal the upper hand once more. Closer, closer the monkey came, screaming fury and ki crackling so bright it was blinding. The scouter on the side of Ginyu’s face blipped incessantly as the readings climbed high, whirring by so fast that the numbers were simply a blur in front of his eye. He crouched, shielding his wounded arm, and drew breath, preparing himself, pulling his soul and his power and the essence of all that was Ginyu into his lungs, ready to belch it forth in a ray of brightness. If he timed it wrong, everything would be over. Vegeta would dodge the beam if he shot too early, or plow straight into him if he waited too long. But Ginyu had an impeccable sense of timing – all his years of dance and gymnastics had not been wasted.

                Hold, hold...not yet. The sweat trickled down Ginyu’s back and the infernal antennae on his forehead twitched with restless nerves. The fingers of both hands were clenched hard, despite the pain it caused in his broken arm. He fought back the nausea that threatened to turn out his stomach, the fear that nested at the base of his spine, and the sudden thought that he might actually die today. After so many years that he’d lost count, so many bodies abandoned before age could cripple them, today might be the end. Vegeta drew closer, and Ginyu shut down his conscious brain and left his body and his instincts in control. Breath. Wait. Heartbeat. Breath. Blink. Heartbeat. Wait. Heartbeat. Go.

                Ginyu opened his mouth and forced all that was himself into his breath, watching with detached vision as the ball of light formed in his jaws and shot outward, straight and true at his intended target. Watched Vegeta blur to the side with a surprising burst of speed and a split second ripple of gold through his aura before he corrected his course. The scouter squealed and cracked with a puff of smoke, falling from his face just as Vegeta rammed into him, laughing.

                “Oops, too bad.” He slammed his fist into Ginyu’s stomach and kicked him sideways. The beam hurtled through the air and into the side of the namekian ship, blowing the bent horn to bits. “Though I think I might have done you a favour.” Vegeta snorted, following Ginyu’s body as it bounced and skidded across the floor. The body thief was closer now to the small group of watching Saiyans than Vegeta had let him come before, but with Vegeta on him like a rabid animal with prey firmly in its jaws, there was no time to gather himself for another try at the body-switching beam. “Can you imagine,” Vegeta was saying as he advanced, “how very pissed off Frieza would have been, had you turned up in my body, and me in that pathetic husk?” He laughed. “Don’t fool yourself, Ginyu, he wants to torture _this_ body. The one that’s caused him so much trouble, the one that’s been so disobedient.” He kicked Ginyu in the ribs, the movement jarring the crack in his collarbone. Vegeta laughed as Ginyu howled in pain. “Not quite used to it, are you?” He bent low and whispered in Ginyu’s ear. “Right about now, you’ve usually managed that little trick of yours and been done with it all. Well not this time.” He grabbed Ginyu by the head and pulled, the body-snatcher shrieking in pain as he felt the vertebrae in his neck begin to separate. Vegeta was going to break his neck, leave him dead without even a hole in him to prove his worth.

.

                “Father, stop struggling!” Sixteen insisted, trying to grab the old man’s fisted hand as it  flailed, connecting with surprising power into his flesh. One of Sixteen’s arms was banded around the doctor’s waist, holding him there as best as he could, while the other chased his father’s fists, trying to stop him from doing any more damage. The main strut in his left thigh was running on forty percent damage already – he could feel that some of the tendon-wires connected to his knee had sprung – and there was a crack in his breastplate from where Ginyu had rammed him with the back of his skull. The old man knew his weak points, that was for certain.

                Sixteen wasn’t alone in his injuries. Chichi was sporting the beginnings of a bruise on her chin from one of the old man’s surprisingly hard fists, and Tien had been forced to withdraw after being jabbed in the third eye, which Bulma was currently examining, trying to assess if the damage from Gero’s fingernails would be permanent. Dr. Briefs hovered nervously over his daughter’s shoulder, holding a small flashlight for her as she instructed the triclops to blink and to look this way and that. He cast a look over his shoulder at the vitriolic madman who’d once been his collaborator and coworker. He’d never before been afraid of the man, even after news of his secret and twisted experiments had blown through the scientific community like a hurricane, but terror itched at the base of his spine now, seeing the cold madness in those blue eyes and wondering just what Gero had gotten up to in the years since his disappearance from Earth. Androids were just scratching the surface of Gero’s secret work; that was certain.

“Quit it, you old bastard!” Chichi hissed, snapping her hands out and taking hold of one of Gero’s fists, just before he managed to make contact with Sixteen’s thigh again. “You’re going to break him!” She held on, gritting her teeth as his arm wriggled and struggled like an eel in her grasp.

                “Good!” Dr. Gero spat, narrowly missing her face. “When I rebuild him, I’ll remember to do a better job!” He aimed a kick at Sixteen’s shin. “My finest creation, pah! What a fool I was, to believe this hunk of trash was anything special!”

                “Now you listen here!” Chichi gasped, loosing her grip with the intention of grabbing the old man by the shirtfront, even though he was already firmly pinned to Sixteen. Gero took advantage of her slip, striking out with heretofore unknown force, his fist connected with Chichi’s stomach and send her skidding backward into the wall.

                “Chichi!” Sixteen cried out, and Gero slammed his elbow backward into his devoted son’s ventilator area, knocking the breath from the android and breaking the vicelike hold he’d had around the doctor’s midsection. Dr. Gero sprang from his son’s grasp and leapt for the door, and in the crush and confusion of everyone trying to pull him back and succeeding only in hindering each other, he burst through the door an onto the battlefield, startling five saiyans, one Namek, and one sort-of-namek in the process. Ginyu felt Vegeta’s hold slip and he went for it, gathering himself into his breath once more. Vegeta saw it coming and jumped away, but this time Ginyu wasn’t aiming for the saiyan prince; no, he was aiming for someone far stupider, someone who happened to be stomping toward him at that very moment, lips flying as he screamed obscenities at everything and everyone around.

                Vegeta cursed as the beam flew toward Dr. Gero but he dared not do anything to interrupt it, lest he be caught in it himself. Gero shrieked as the golden beam plowed into him, and Ginyu stared in stunned surprise down at his own hands, still the green hands of the namek called Nail. “What?” He asked aloud, disbelief flooding through his veins as he watched the old man hurtle back in the direction from which he’d come, propelled by the beam that should have switched them. There was a crash and the shatter of glass as Gero’s head hit the wall, the beam finally losing what little strength it had left as the man’s sodden, black hat hit the floor, followed by a pierced and bleeding human brain. The stink of burnt circuitry was in the air, and Gero’s body sizzled and smoked as the blue fluid dripping from his head made contact with newly exposed wires.

                “Holy shit.” Said Radditz, as he stared down at the brain by his feet.

                “NO!” Ginyu shrieked as Vegeta regained his wits. “No, how can this be?” He asked of no one in particular, as panic began to surge through him. “If I’m going to die today, I’ll take all of you with me!” He shrieked, gathering all the power that remained in him he lifted his good arm and fired a burst of ki at the outer wall.

                “GO!” Vegeta shouted at his men, who burst into action, each racing to head off the blast before it could do any major damage. “Like hell I’m dying now.” He snarled at Ginyu, grasping the green head and twisting, hard. “Have fun in Hell.” He spat, feeling the crack of bones and the snap of tendons. Ginyu’s body went limp and his bladder loosed, and by some cruel joke, some turn of whatever fate was watching, his fingers twitched and the beam of ki that was his last action swerved suddenly to the left, right past the group of fighters who’d gathered there to head it off. They dove, as though in unison, but the energy was quick and in the end, the one to stop its deadly course was Guru, who leapt into its path with the spry vigour of a man centuries younger and several hundred pounds lighter.

                “GURU!” A small voice shrieked, and Dende was rushing through the door, sobbing, to his master’s side. The rest of the inhabitants of Red Station followed, watching with tears in their eyes as the saiyans parted to allow the small boy passage. The immediate danger was over.

                “Dende...Dende.” The old namek wheezed, his massive body shuddering with the effort to draw breath. He smiled with relief as small hands clutched his own, squeezing reassurance.

                “I’m here, Master Guru.” The boy’s voice was thick with tears, though steel echoed from its depths. “I’ll heal you, Guru. It will be okay.”

                “You must not.” Guru coughed, dark purple blood spattering his lips. “You can not. It is done, and we must hurry.” He grasped the child’s hands with a surprisingly strong grip for a man in the throes of his own death. “Come and bow your head.” He released Dende, lifting one hand with great effort to lay it on the boy’s forehead. “Open your mind. I will give you what I can.  I wish it was more, but I must have some strength to spare.”

                Dende’s eyes widened with understanding as his forehead grew warm. He jerked back, a refusal strangled in his throat as the big hand clamped down around his skull, strong with determination, and pulled him close again. Guru’s knowledge, his power, and wisdom were pouring through that connection, as though the old sage had built a bridge straight into Dende’s brain. More than that; his soul was expanding, growing, learning and changing with the influx of Guru’s essence, and a fresh wave of tears poured from his eyes as he realized exactly what it meant. “No...noooo.” Dende moaned, his shoulders slumping even as the hand of his master continued to hold his head up. “You can’t.” He sobbed, clutching at the arm with small fingers. “You can’t do this. Don’t go. Please.”

                “This is the fate that I foresaw.” Guru wheezed. “It must be this way. I give you all I can, Dende, for you must step up and take my place as the elder of our people.”

                “I can’t!” Dende wailed, his eyes widening with horror. “How can I be the elder, Master, when I have not even half the years of the youngest namek here?”

                “Do not fear.” Guru managed to chuckle, even though the motion brought more blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. “The position of Elder, of Great Sage is not about how old you are, Dende. I have known many old fools in my time, and many brilliant children. Don’t you see? This has been my intent from the moment I took you as my student. You were never meant to be a simple village leader, my son, but will be a great man, a God. I have seen it.” The old sage coughed, his bulk shifting violently as he did so, and he finally dropped his hand from Dende’s forehead. “It is done. Go and live well, child.” He gestured weakly, and Bulma stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Dende’s shoulder. He whirled and clung to her, arms tight around her hips, face buried in her belly and tears soaking right through her shirt. She stroked his head and hugged him tightly, lifting her hands from him only to swipe at her own gushing eyes and running nose.

                “Vegeta.” Guru heaved a rattling breath, his eyes glassy as he looked at those gathered around him. “Vegeta, come here. Ahh, there you are, boy.” He smiled as Vegeta stepped forward, one of the only people in the universe who could call the prince _boy_ and not ignite his fury. Vegeta swallowed and knelt down next to the prone form of his ally, willing himself to be as kind as he knew how.

                “Take off your gloves.” Guru ordered, and Vegeta did so, laying them carefully on his lap. “Give me your hands.” The green man said, and Vegeta complied, even as Guru reached over so as not to give him a choice. Vegeta jerked and snarled, his eyes going wide as he felt the crackle of energy zip through their palms, like an static shock on steroids. “You are the universe’s only hope.” Guru said, gripping Vegeta’s hands with surprising strength for a dying man. “Do not fear the power inside of you.”

                “I don’t.” Vegeta snapped, just to be contrary as panic bubbled within him. The crack in his belly was opening again, the contents steaming and bubbling as it boiled up out of the darkness. The same raw, furious energy that had nearly killed him twice now, that power that lived within him that he could not control, it was pouring out even as he tried to hold it back, like water through a sieve. The skin of his palms, the connection between him and Guru, burned and sizzled. Vegeta knew that the sage must be feeling it too, yet the old man did not flinch away in pain, nor did his grip on Vegeta’s hands weaken in the slightest.

                “Let it out.” Guru insisted. Vegeta shook his head, but the crackle of power surrounded them, and he felt his hold on it slipping away, crumbling around him as he raced to reinforce it. “Let it out.” Guru said again, and Vegeta felt the pulse of it in his veins, the bulge and strain of it in his muscles. His scalp tingled, his tail stood on end, stiff and puffed to twice its normal size. “Listen to me, Vegeta, and I will give you what you have dreamed of all your life.”

                “I can’t control it.” Vegeta ground out through clenched teeth as the familiar burn started to spread through him, the pain of too much ki, as though he were engulfed in a ball of it, his body turning to ash. “You’ll kill us all!” He choked, his body curling as every muscle cramped with the pain of his restraint.

                “You can do it.” Guru wheezed, squeezing the hands between his as hard as he could. He could feel his body shutting down; they were running out of time and if he did not do what needed to be done, the entire universe was doomed to live forever in Frieza’s shadow. “Let it out, Vegeta!” He roared, digging his nails into the prince’s hands. “All of your anger, all of your fear and your hatred! Dive into it and let your violent heart bathe in the blood of it, the black place in you. Unleash the cracked thing inside, and take hold of it!”

                Vegeta reared back and howled as pain overcame him, rushing through his veins, burning through him like he’d never felt before. His vision blurred and his brain fizzed inside his skull, as though all the liquid in his body had begun to boil. He didn’t hear the gasps and screams of the gathered onlookers, nor their awed questions and exclamations. He didn’t see their pointing fingers, their trembling hands and teary faces. He saw blackness, alive and writhing ink, and heard only a buzzing sort of roar, like rushing water, so loud he thought his head might split from the sound of it. He wrenched his hands from Guru’s grip and clapped them over his ears, his fingers digging into his scalp as he tried to block out the noise, to no avail. It was in his skull, echoing around and bouncing off the walls and gaining volume even as he screamed himself hoarse for it to stop and to just shut up, not that he could hear his own voice over the roar, but he felt his mouth moving, felt his vocal cords stretching and straining.

                Guru was scrabbling for him, clutching and grasping, he could feel it on his skin, feel the movement as his hands were grabbed away again, clenched tightly between warm palms. “Let me help you.” The voice cut through the rush inside his brain and he was startled to see a flash of light in the darkness. It pinged off the inside of his skull and shattered, sending out a thousand tiny sparks and then it was gone. But there was another one, and another one, and soon there were flashes of light in all the colours his saiyan eyes could see, and some that they could not, flashing around in his head and exploding like so many fireworks behind his eyeballs.

                Vegeta opened his eyes and found he could see again, Guru’s pale face swimming into focus before him, his mouth moving quickly and a moment later the words making their way through the fug in his head. “Focus on me, Vegeta. Let out your power and focus on me.”

                “I’ll kill you.” Vegeta whispered, his voice cracking with strain and his lungs burning like he’d breathed in a mouthful of embers, and he wondered how long he’d been sitting there, blind and deaf and screaming.

                “It is the only way. Now hurry, before I die of my injuries.” Guru said, and Vegeta knew that it was too late to turn back, too late to stuff it all back inside him, too late to patch up the cracked place with chewing gum and duct tape, like he’d done in the past.

                “I’m sorry.” Vegeta croaked, and the ancient namek smiled.

                “I am happy to die for the universe. And yet the sorrow is mine, to place it on your shoulders.” He took a deep breath, let it out slow like he was savouring it. It would be his last, he knew.

                Vegeta nodded and bowed his head, closing his eyes and clutching Guru’s hands tightly as he focused on the raw energy boiling around them. He stopped trying to hold it in, ceased his efforts to plug the leak in his soul, and simply let it flow out, channelling it all through his hands and into the body of the dear friend he hadn’t really known he’d had. He heard all the comments this time, the gasps and the sobs and the wonder in the voices of those watching as the transformation began again. He felt the pulsing in his veins, felt the ripple of gold in his hair like wind over a field of grain and struggled to catch it, to hold it down and make it stay with him. His eyes burned each time they flashed from black to blue, suddenly so much more sensitive to the light and yet he asked that, too, to stay.

                He knew the second that Guru died, felt the pulse no more through old, arthritic hands, the shudder of life as it exits the body, and knew it as the moment his transformation was complete. He laid the old man’s hand down across his still chest and stood, staring at his own hands and marvelling at the pure power he could feel there. His tail swished behind him and he caught the blur of gold motion, and the reflection of his hair in the steel panelling around him. The world was bright and shining, and his eyes no longer burned but grew wider as he took in all that was around him, seen with clarity and detail that he had never known. The inhabitants and new visitors to Red Station all stared, transfixed and motionless with awe as Vegeta stood there and marvelled at himself. He looked at them and the spell was broken, his small troupe of followers falling to their knees in awe, bowing low before their king. Even Goku looked moved, one hand clutched in the fabric of his shirt, over his heart. The displaced nameks were chattering away, bewildered and frightened, their dark eyes resting alternately on the hulking corpse of their old leader, and on the shivering child who was to be their new one. Piccolo and the humans simply stared, all except for Bulma, who stumbled forward and collapsed against Vegeta with a sob, sagging against him so that he was forced to grasp her around the waist, or let her fall.

                “You’ve done it.” She whispered, rubbing her sodden, salty face against his chest, when she was once more capable of words. “You’ve become the Super Saiyan.”

                “I know.” Vegeta whispered, squeezing her tightly, and even his voice was filled with wonder. “I know.”

 


	34. Chapter 34

 Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Thanks to all you fabulous people who keep reviewing! Between fanfiction.net and mediaminer.org, Vengeance has a review count of OVER 500!!!!!!!! (Not as impressive as OVER 9000!!! but still pretty damn amazing) So thanks so much; I hope you’re all aware of how appreciative I am to know that people are enjoying this fic. Especially since I don’t know any of you in person, and you therefore are under no obligation to be nice to me. ; D

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PRESENT DAY

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                Vegeta took a deep breath, savouring the scents of the universe as experienced through Super Saiyan nostrils, and let it out slowly. He wished that there could be more triumph in this moment, more time to revel in his own strength and superiority, but there was too much to be done and too few hours in which to accomplish it. The knowledge left him bitter, feeling cheated. The ascension to this state of being was supposed to be like the dawning of a new era, a beacon of hope for his people and a time for rejoicing, but instead there were four bodies to be dealt with – well, three bodies, a brain, and a pile of scrap metal. There was also the complication added by Frieza knowing Vengeance’s identity and location, thanks to Ginyu’s damnable scouter. They would have to find somewhere safe to move everyone, and if that wasn’t a hard enough task, also figure out the logistics of such a move. There were only so many among them that were capable of piloting a small ship, and to transport everyone, likely more than one ship would be necessary. There would also be the twin tasks of gathering everything that they could bring with them and destroying what they couldn’t, that would need to be accomplished within hours if they were to get well away before any of Frieza’s people began arriving. Vegeta’s heart sank at the thought of having to destroy the gravity room after they’d put so much time and energy into its construction, and yet there was no other choice. He looked down at the woman in his arms, watched her snuffle her face further into his shoulder – no doubt wiping her nose on his body suit – and shook his head. She would build him another one, wherever they went. His official accounts would no doubt be wiped out and appropriated by Frieza, in light of his treachery, but Vegeta was no fool. The majority of his assets were tucked safely away, spread over a dozen or more accounts held by so many aliases. Funds, as with the first construction, would not be an issue.

                Vegeta sighed and stepped away from Bulma, his urge to get on with their exit plan at war with his reluctance to power down, to release his hold on the magnificence that was Super Saiyan form. This power was something he’d worked for and dreamed of for his whole life, but it would be worthless if someone came along and blew a hole in Red Station. Vegeta was pretty sure that Super Saiyans still needed to breathe, so with reluctance, he began to concentrate on the center of the power, deep in his belly, hauling it back in as one might yank a rope in a game of tug-of-war. It was harder than he’d expected – Vegeta had imagined that once he gained hold of the power, perfect control would be his – but not nearly as painful or damaging as the last two times had been. His veins tingled but did not burn, and his mind was blissfully free of the roaring madness that had nearly consumed him before. It was funny; he’d always thought that turning Super Saiyan would be a permanent transformation, and yet now that he had done it and with no one to tell him anything about it, he knew undeniably that he was not meant to spend the rest of his life as a golden haired god.

                Vegeta powered down, felt the energy leaching from him, going down, down into the place within him where it lived, and while it was disappointing, he knew that this would not be his only moment as a Super Saiyan. Where before, the place had been cracked and painful, he could feel it now pulsing slowly within him like a second heartbeat, somewhere just beyond his fingertips. If he stretched, it would be within his grasp again, easily.

                “Oh look,” Bulma whispered, reaching up and then sort of flinching, drawing her hand back as though she wasn’t sure it would be alright if she touched him. “Your hair. And your eyes.”

                “Don’t worry,” Vegeta took her hand and squeezed it briefly in his own before dropping it, and lifting his head to address his underlings as well, “it isn’t gone forever.” He turned purposefully toward the massive body of Guru and felt something within him shift uncomfortably at the sight. How long would it have taken for him to achieve this power, had the sage not unlocked it? How many more months, how many more years of training, of beating himself into the ground to activate the saiyan healing factor? How many more times would he have balanced on the brink of death and insanity, completely at the mercy of the mad power that lived within him? Vegeta closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear the unsettling questions from his mind.

                “What do we do with him?” Nappa asked, coming to stand beside Vegeta. He jabbed Guru’s slack, pudgy arm with the toe of his boot and Vegeta snarled and slapped him in the arm. “Ack, hey!” Nappa grumped and stepped back a little. “Well he’s dead, what the hell do we do with him? And the other namek and the old man, for that matter?”

                “We’ll have to put them out to space before we go.” Vegeta said, “Respectfully.” He added, with a glare at Nappa.

                “Before we go? Where are we going?” Bulma asked, loudly, and everyone turned to look at the saiyan prince.

                “I don’t know yet, but we have to get out of here. Ginyu’s scouter will have been transmitting our conversation and location straight back to Frieza’s mothership. Men will be on their way.” Vegeta looked around the room, tallying up bodies and mentally translating that into food and supplies. “There’s no time to waste, we have to gather up everything we need, and destroy anything we intend on leaving behind, including the station itself, if we can.”

                “I cannot allow that.” Sixteen’s mechanical voice cut across the hangar and everyone turned to see him, carefully gathering up the body of Dr. Gero. He’d retrieved the brain and set it back inside the broken casing even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Too long outside its protective bubble, the last part of his father had died during the remainder of the fight. Sixteen wasn’t quite sure what to think, but he dutifully gathered up the remains and lay them next to Guru’s. “Dr. Gero’s experiments must not be disturbed, and I will not permit you to destroy them.” He intoned, and Bulma felt a shiver run up her spine as she thought of the two half-formed bodies, floating away in complete ignorance in Gero’s lab. She looked at Sixteen, wondering if he knew what to do with them or whether she and her father would be required to step in. Bulma wasn’t sure that she was comfortable playing Prometheus, but she knew that Sixteen would be devastated if they were forced to destroy the twins.

                “There’s got to be a way,” She said softly, “to take them.”

                Sixteen shook his head, not even bothering to look up at her as he arranged Dr. Gero’s arms. “No, the power source to the tanks must not be interrupted.” He stood, looking down at his erstwhile father. “Besides, it is not necessary.”

                “What do you mean?” Vegeta snapped, growing impatient with the slow, methodical way in which the android moved and spoke. Time was of the essence. “What the devil are you talking about?”

                “Red Station is a ship.” Sixteen straightened and looked Vegeta in the eye, before turning to Bulma to explain. “The core of the station is the ship that my father built on Earth. As he expanded it over the years, he upgraded the propulsion systems as well.”

                “What?” Bulma shrieked, just as her father, several feet away, was mumbling “Hmmm, interesting.”

                “The last of the upgrades was completed before you arrived,” Sixteen continued, “and while the station has not moved under its own power in at least a decade, I am confident that it will work. Though we may have to jettison the eastern storage deck. It was not meant to be a permanent fixture and may not hold up during travel.”

                “What can we do?” Bulma asked, reaching out to grab Sixteen’s hand. “My father and I will help, just tell us what to get done.”

                “A moment, please.” Sixteen sighed, and looked around at all the people he’d be dooming if they weren’t able to get the ship running. He turned to Vegeta, only because it seemed that everyone else would listen to what the prince had to say. “Red will not be the fastest of ships, you need to know this. There is no guarantee that we’ll be able to outrun anyone on our tail, but my father feared persecution, even out here. We are heavily armed – moreso than the average battle cruiser in Frieza’s forces. I am confident in our chances should it come to a fight.”

                “How long to get running?” Vegeta asked.

                “With the help of Bulma and the Doctor, two hours at most.”

                “Make it one. Now go!” Vegeta barked, and turned to his men and the rest of the station’s inhabitants, firing out orders as Sixteen and the two Briefs hurried away. He’d give them their hour, and at the end of it if Red Station wasn’t lumbering its way across the galaxy, he’d throw everyone into the available transports and give the order to scatter. “Saiyans, you will clear out anything of value from the eastern deck, and make it fast. Kakarott’s mate, you will go with them to make sure nothing important is left behind and that we do not take on needless junk. Old man, pig and cat, you will monitor the radios and inform me _at once_ if you hear anything important. Three eyes, you will go with them and keep watch for incoming ships. Baldy and assorted Nameks, you will dispose of these bodies in a fitting manner. Everybody understand? Good.” Vegeta nodded in satisfaction as everyone hopped to their tasks, even those who were not at all accustomed to following his orders. As for himself, he intended to check on Bulma’s group before the rest. He knew what Briefs were like when confronted with new technology. Even the threat of imminent torture and death wouldn’t get in the way of their combined curiosities.

                “Umm, what can I do?” Mrs. Briefs piped up, just as Vegeta hit the door. He turned and glared, squinting at her through narrowed eyes.

                “Make dinner.” He snapped. “I’m fucking hungry.”

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                “So,” Bulma huffed as she climbed the ladder, trying to hurry up because Sixteen was practically flying through the corridors. She looked back to see her father, puffing his way along with Kitty clinging fast. Good, they hadn’t lost him yet. “Uhh, Dr. Gero, huh? Umm, when?” She asked bluntly.

                “You retrieved a package for him once, and he was very upset with you for coming back late. Do you recall?” Sixteen slowed his pace a little, allowing Dr. Briefs to catch up. “That package contained necessary parts for the brain tank’s filtering system. I begged him to wait to begin the procedures until you got back, but he would have none of it.”

                “Oh boy.” Bulma put a hand to her stomach, feeling a little sick. “So he constructed a new body and...”

                “He transferred his brain into it, yes.” Sixteen finished the sentence for her, seemingly unbothered by the knowledge. “My father’s dream was to become a perfect android, but he could think of no way to implant his consciousness into a completely artificial body.”

                “What did you do with...with the body?” Bulma was sure she felt sick now, with the unfortunate mental picture in her mind of Sixteen cutting into Gero’s skull, carefully lifting out the brain... “Euch.” She muttered, swallowing back bile.

                “We put it out to space,” Sixteen shrugged carelessly, “with the garbage. My father did not feel any sentiment for his flesh-made casing.”

                “And you,” Dr. Briefs asked unexpectedly, “did you care?” Bulma watched as her father made brief eye contact with the cat on his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in a gesture of significance as though asking for the animal’s opinion. Kitty yawned.

                “I was...bothered.” Sixteen said, as clinically as though he were discussing the mechanics of his big toe. “Father could not be persuaded otherwise. He did not want any of you to know what he had done.”

                “No wonder!” Bulma snapped, and her father simply tutted.

                “Gero was at times bordering on mad, but my, he _was_ a genius. Why just look at yourself, young man!” He patted Sixteen on the arm, would have gone for the shoulder if he’d been able to reach, and the big android felt an odd rush of warmth go through him. It had been years, _years_ , since his own father had looked at him with anything resembling pride. “And then to do...well, _that_ to himself, that must have been a feat indeed.”

                “The process was not perfect.” Sixteen said softly. “His behaviour became...erratic. You saw so yourself on more than one occasion, Bulma. His outburst today was not an isolated incident. We were working to resolve the issue, but could find no concrete source of the irregularities.” He shook his head. “Enough talk. We must get Red’s engines running. Come along.” Sixteen turned abruptly away and gestured for Bulma and Dr. Briefs to follow.

                “Irregularities?” Bulma panted as she jogged along beside the oversized android. “You call all those freak outs irregularities? What kind of nut goes and sticks his own brain in a mechanical body without working the bugs out first?” She glared up at her friend, but he resolutely ignored her, so she shot her father a wide eyed look instead. He merely shrugged – apparently he was nowhere near as surprised as she was that his old colleague and friend was capable of such insanity.

                “All through history, my dear daughter,” he intoned, “men have done crazy things for science.”

                “Am I the only one who is bothered by this?” Bulma demanded, and Dr. Briefs chuckled in that way of his, the one that said he’d semi-detached himself from reality again, and Bulma could only roll her eyes. She was on her own.

                “Come, the engines can only be accessed through the computer in my father’s lab,” Sixteen was saying, as he typed out a quick code on the door’s lock. “We can change this easily, once we gain access.”

                “Good,” Bulma snapped, peering with distrustful eyes around the interior of the lab, lest another weird and unseemly experiment be lurking in the shadows, “because this place gives me the creeps. I don’t want to have to do much of anything in here until I get it gutted and cleaned up.” She crossed her arms and glared at her dad. “Dibs, by the way.” She said, and then had the grace to be ashamed of herself. “Umm, if that’s okay with you, Sixteen.”

                “I have no objections.” The android answered, unruffled as usual. Truth be told, the lab was no longer a place of happy memories for him. He was pleased to think that Bulma might be able to wipe away the taint of his father’s final weeks, and was glad to let her move in. “You may do as you will with my father’s things, so long as you promise to help me bring Seventeen and Eighteen to completion.” Sixteen paused, looking around at the bits and piles, the half completed projects, safely stored under drop cloths, and felt a pang for the man who’d created him. “Though I hope you will not simply trash everything. My father’s work was not all bad.” He added shyly.

                “I know.” She smiled radiantly up at him, and he was glad to have her in his father’s stead. “He made you, right?”

                “Ahem...anyway. The engines.” Sixteen turned abruptly toward the computer, plopping his huge form down into a chair and scootching into place. His big hands flew over the keyboard with the speed and accuracy of any machine. “I can access them from this computer myself, but there are some tests and checks that need to be done before we start them up, and I thought it would go more quickly with two extra pairs of hands. Ahh, there!” Sixteen sat back for a moment and a chime sounded from the speakers. In the distance, Bulma heard the familiar hiss and whirr of a hydraulic system moving a heavy load.

                “What the heck?” She muttered, watching the android spring from his seat and head toward the back of the lab, where he pulled aside a tarp and shoved a pile of crates out of the way to reveal a door in the floor.

                “I’ve disabled the locks on everything for the time being,” Sixteen explained as he lifted the hatch and began making his way down a ladder. “Once we get moving, we can reprogram the system to operate from the station’s control deck and reset any necessary passwords.” He stopped at the bottom and waited for the Briefs before leading them down a narrow little passage which opened up to reveal the engine room. Secretive as Gero had been, neither Bulma nor her father had ever been down here.

                “Well, the old fellow was no slouch, that’s for sure.” Dr. Briefs let out a long, low whistle as he ran his hand along the nearest piece of machinery.

                “I still don’t understand why he had to keep it all a secret.” Bulma pouted, enviously eyeing the quality of the work surrounding her. “Especially about the propulsion system. I know the smaller ships are probably more efficient, but why wouldn’t he have wanted us to know the station could be used as a ship?” She resisted the urge to plant her foot in the side of what appeared to be the water heater.

                “My father was not social by nature.” Sixteen led them deeper still, toward the back wall. “So much changed for us with your arrival, and I think he feared what you might do with the knowledge. It was his trump card, his last hope of control over Red Station.”

                “Feared? Feared?” Bulma squawked indignantly as she followed the two men through the dimly lit space. “What is there to fear about me? Why, I’m the model of a good guest, of a polite and ladylike – holy shit.” She stopped in her tracks and stared. Three massive thrusters faced them, jutting out from the wall like pipes to nowhere. “Why is it inside?”

                “The panel rotates.” Sixteen patted one of the massive cylinders. “For easy access. Ingenious, is it not?” He pushed a button and the whirring sound of machinery echoed around the room as the wall lifted out from the bottom and spun to reveal yet more room behind. “This panel is also mounted on tracks. Two feet back it seals and forms an air lock, after which the very back wall will open up and this will slide into place, with the thrusters on the outside of the ship.” Sixteen graced them with a rare little smile. “Father did not like to go outside of the ship to do maintenance, if he could avoid it.”

                “Seems an awfully complicated way to avoid the cold.” Bulma snapped, but the men could hear the note of admiration and awe in her voice,  as she stepped forward to examine the machinery, the tinge of jealousy at someone else’s superior design. The rudimentary ship she’d built back on Earth, the one she’d been so very proud of, was like a child’s toy compared to Gero’s Red.

                “You may study it as much as you like, later. For now, we must get it operational.”

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                Krillin grunted and fell backwards with a yelp as his sweaty palms slipped and he lost his grip. Grimmacing, he wiped his hands on his sore butt and took hold of Guru’s arm again, cringing at the slack, rubbery feel of dead flesh beneath his fingertips. Whatever happened to people just fading away, he wondered as he heaved once more, desperately trying to move the massive body of the old sage all by himself. He glared at the huddled group of sobbing nameks, all apparently too distraught to help him.  “Why,” he tugged the namek an inch, “me?” Another two inches. “I always get the shit jobs.” He dropped Guru’s arm and paused to wipe his sweaty forehead. Almost there.

                “Have some respect, Krillin.” Piccolo’s voice snapped from a few feet behind him, and the bald human turned to see the former god standing in the doorway to the airlock, giving him a look that could curdle milk. Piccolo had already lain out the remains of Dr. Gero and Snare, the namek that Ginyu had killed.

                “Well he weighs a _ton_.” Krillin hissed, with a sidelong glance at the mourning nameks, a flood of guilt rushing through him as he realized they’d undoubtedly heard his complaints, followed by irritation that he was made to feel guilty when none of them could even be bothered to help.

                “Geez Krillin, have some _respect._ ” Krillin whirled back around, this time to see Gohan and Radditz, each carrying in a pile of supplies from the eastern deck and wearing identical expressions of disgust.

                “It wasn’t...I didn’t...” Krillin sputtered helplessly as the two saiyans set down their loads and came to do his job for them.

                “It’s pretty bad when even saiyans have better manners than you.” Piccolo said, once they had hefted Guru’s body between them and tottered off into the airlock. He grabbed up Ginyu’s body and followed them, leaving Krillin to sputter and stammer, shamefaced, as the nameks looked on.

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                Bulma looked up as the distinctive sound of saiyan boots on ladder rungs echoed through the cavernous engine room. She grinned, watching Vegeta’s royal posterior descend from the upper level of Gero’s lab, and rose to meet him. He hit the ground, turned, and cocked his head to stare at her as she came toward him. “By the Gods, woman, how do you manage to get so filthy?” He asked, taking in the black splotches on her clothes, and the streaks that marred her face.

                “Oil pan on the left engine was cracked.” She swiped a hand over her cheek, simply smearing the grease more, and shrugged. “I was unfortunately underneath it, checking the bolts, while dear dad over there was filling it. No worries though, we’ve patched it up and it should hold find until we can find another.”

                “How long until we get moving?” Vegeta peered past her, trying to understand exactly what was being done.

                “Half hour, tops.” Bulma tossed her oil-coated hair and made a sour face. “As much as I hate to admit it, Sixteen was right. Gero built a good system and beyond a little neglect, it’s pretty much in peak condition. So don’t worry your pretty little face over it.” She reached out and patted his cheek, purposefully leaving black smudges, and he scoffed and stepped out of reach.

                “Vulgar creature.” Vegeta muttered, rubbing at his face with the back of one gloved hand, sneering at the mess. “You’ve ruined my gloves.”

                “Pfft. You ruined them yourself. And besides, it’s not like you don’t have ten more pairs upstairs.” Bulma stretched out one finger, tried to tap him on the nose, but he caught her arm in his hand, whirled her around and sent her stumbling a few steps back in the direction of her father and Sixteen.

                “Back to work.” He snapped, and was up the ladder and away before she could plant her dirty hands all over his rear end.

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                Goku hefted yet another box into his arms, waddled ten feet, and set it gently onto the ‘keep’ pile, all the while aware of Chichi’s gimlet eye boring into his back. He’d made the mistake of tossing the first box onto the pile – how was he to know it was full of Dr. Briefs’ spare beakers and glassware? – and she’d been watching him like a hawk ever since. He worked his neck painfully from side to side and rubbed at his left arm as he went to grab the next item for inspection. Nappa had the good job; sorting out the junk and piling it up, nobody cared if he broke anything. Goku briefly considered asking the older man to switch with him, but one look at Nappa’s face convinced him otherwise. It looked like he was having fun breaking things, and Goku didn’t want to make Chichi go head to head with the grumpy saiyan.

                “Junk, junk, junk.” Chichi was saying to herself when he found her again, shoving things in Nappa’s general direction for him to come and take away. “Hmm...I’m not sure what this is, so we’d better keep it.” She shrugged and pushed an odd looking contraption the other way, just as she saw Goku. “Here’s your pile!” She said brightly, and Goku couldn’t help but to be amused by his wife’s love of organization and her easy head for direction. “Chop chop, Goku! No dawdling now.” She clapped her hands as he looked the thing over – a steel frame with a tangle of wires and doo-dads hanging off it – trying to figure out the best way to get a grip on it.

                “Hey dad, how’s it going?” Gohan was just coming into the room as Goku emerged from behind the junk pile. Radditz came in a moment later, and Goku grinned and handed off his unwieldy burden to his brother.

                “What is it?” Radditz asked, and Goku shrugged. “Then why are we keeping it?” He asked, and Goku shrugged again, his right hand coming up briefly to grip his left shoulder. “Whatever.” Radditz turned and left with the thing while Gohan stared just a little too hard at his father.

                “What’s up, kiddo?” Goku asked, dropping his arm.

                “Are you okay dad?”

                “Yeah, of course.” Goku chirped, but it sounded fake even to him. He wiggled his tingling fingers and grinned widely. “Why do you ask?” It would go away soon, he knew. It always had in the past. Gohan’s eyes flew to his fidgeting hand, and he quickly moved it behind his back, gripping it tightly in his other.

                “No reason.” Gohan met his father’s gaze. “Take it easy dad.” He said, even though he wanted to demand a list of whatever symptoms his father was experiencing and rush it right off to Nappa, who knew the most about the wasting that was plaguing his father. Something was going on, Gohan was sure of it, and yet any time anyone mentioned it or even looked at him for too long, his father would clam up, get all cagey and quiet like a wounded animal. It was frustrating, to say the least, and Gohan was quickly tiring of it. He wondered if Radditz would be willing to gang up with him and maybe beat some information out of Goku. Family was family, after all, and they had to look out for each other.

                In the meantime, there was progress to be made, and Gohan could feel Vegeta’s ki signature moving their way. The prince was no doubt coming to check on them and he didn’t want to disappoint. They’d made a good sized dent in their task already, but one quickly learned that in Vegeta’s opinion, things could always be better.

                A shiver ran down Gohan’s spine as he thought of Vegeta, causing his tail to stiffen behind him, all of the hairs standing on end so that it looked twice its usual girth. The prince had actually done it, and the transformation had taken Gohan’s breath away and squeezed his heart in his chest so that he thought it might stop up and die at any second. Tears pricked his eyes as he recalled the feeling of Vegeta’s power, the waves of strong, pure ki that had rolled out from him like waves in the ocean. Gohan had felt as though he was looking upon a god, and wondered if Vegeta was so far from it. Kami and Piccolo had both been gods of a sort, and they were far less impressive according to the half-saiyan.

                “What are you staring at, brat?” Vegeta snapped, his tail flicking agitatedly from side to side as he strolled into the room. “You’ve got work to do. Hurry the fuck up.”

                “Uhh, yes sir! Of course Prince Vegeta!” Gohan stammered, grabbing up the nearest thing and rushing past Vegeta with it. Vegeta’s power wasn’t the only thing that was legendary; his temper and his attitude were a fine match for it.

                “We’re almost done.” Chichi appeared with a frown on her face, Goku trailing behind, both of them stooping to deposit armloads of stuff in the pile to be kept. She held back the sniping comment she wanted to make, only because she knew that Gohan would not appreciate it, but it rankled her to see the way he ordered her son about. She sniffed and turned her head, only to see that Nappa had joined them, and was looking at her with just the barest hint of a grin. Chichi sniffed and turned the other way.

                “Just a bit more.” Goku put in, and Vegeta cast him a glare.

                “Fine.” He said, and his gaze swept the room before he whirled back toward the door, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “Move faster.” And then he was gone, stomping off toward the control room to check on the radio team. Chichi watched him go with narrowed eyes, before huffing and turning to her two saiyan companions.

                “Well?” She snapped, shooing at them with her hands. “Get moving! He has a point!”

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                “Boooooring!” Roshi sighed, slumping back in his chair and allowing his head to flop back. He kicked his feet out and propped them on the desk, at the same time yanking off his headset and dropping it in his lap. “Nothing but static over here.”

                “Trashy talk radio.” Oolong snorted, his tail quivering as he adjusted his dial. “Check it out, this chick is sleeping with two guys, right, and one of ‘em is some kinda squid monster. Ladies love tentacles, right? Anyway, she’s thinking about leaving her husband for him ‘cause she can’t get enough, but he’s some kind of jailbreaker and her old man’s a psycho bounty hunter or some shit like that. So she’s all –”

                “Oolong, what the hell?” Puar interjected, cutting the pig off as he dialled down his own volume. “You’re supposed to be listening to the news, not trolling the airwaves to fulfill your own pervy fantasies.”

                “Oh, you’re one to talk, cat. Speaking of pervy fantasies, who do you think I saw sneaking out of Radditz’s bedroom this morning, huh? Dude, you were a dude. Not even a chick.”

                “Shut your snout, before I shut it for you.” Puar hissed, his face hot beneath his fur. “That’s none of your business!”

                “Oh ho, what’s this?” Roshi waggled his brows. “Why didn’t you just turn yourself into a girl? With big, round,” he broke off, wiping a string of drool from his chin, “mmmm.”

                “I’m gay, you old fart; I don’t want to be a girl!” Puar yelled, though the serious impact was lost a little in his cat voice. “Now both of you shut up, and don’t you start in with them either!” Puar shook his little fist at Tien, who’d thus far remained silent, listening intently to his own headset.

                “Wasn’t going to. Wouldn’t want to risk getting on a saiyan’s bad side.” Tien shrugged, tuning his radio to a different channel, having found nothing on the previous one. “They scare the shit out of me, our side or not. I heard stories, man...stories to peel the meat right from your bones.” He shivered a little, eyes faraway and obviously thinking of another time and place. He shook his head abruptly, blinking hard and forcing a few deep breaths through his lungs. “Scary as hell, but glad they’re on our side.”

                “I feel you there.” Oolong snorted. “Not like this guy.” He jabbed a thumb toward Puar.

                “Oolong, I swear...” Puar growled, brandishing his tiny claws.

                “Ooh, scary.” The pig laughed, though not for long as Puar’s arms morphed into long, thin limbs with huge, razor sharp blades at the end.

                “He’s rubbing off on you, not just against you, I see.” Roshi observed, cackling with glee at his own wit.

                “Enough, enough.” Tien insisted, his tone uncharacteristically bold. “We’re supposed to be paying attention to the radios here. I’d rather not let Frieza’s troops get the upper hand, because I’m telling you idiots, I am _not_ going back into a slaver camp.”

                “Finally, a bit of spine from you.” Vegeta scoffed as he walked into the room, having heard most of the conversation on his way down the hall. Tien shrunk back in surprise at this direct addressing, and Vegeta rolled his eyes. “Too much to hope for, I suppose. Any news?” He asked, changing the subject, “Or are you all too busy with your tripe and your trash?”

                “N...nothing to report yet.” Puar volunteered. “There are ships heading in our direction, but the closest is still several hours off. I don’t think it’s become public knowledge yet.”

                “The news will break soon. Even if he doesn’t intend it, someone in Frieza’s camp will slip up. And at that time we will become either a rallying point for the resistance, or the universe’s biggest target. Quite likely both, actually.” Vegeta shrugged. Neither idea phased him as they might have, short days ago. It was hard to worry with the power of a legend running through his veins. He would destroy Frieza, and he would worry about the rest of it later.

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                “That’s right you slimy lizard, it was me!” Vegeta’s voice rang through the control room, all the more recognizable in the dead silence. The operators watched their lord, each one too scared to move, even to breathe too loudly, for fear of igniting the beast’s rage.

                “Play it again.” Frieza said, his voice surprisingly calm while bright pink spots of rage glowed on his cheeks. The radio operator cringed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he queued the sound clip and pushed play. It was definitely Vegeta’s voice, unmistakeable even without Ginyu’s preamble, and though the prince had a reputation for flagrantly disrespecting their lord and master, no one had ever thought he was stupid enough to actually go and turn traitor. Add to that the fact of Zarbon’s presence in the dungeons, charged with the very same crime, and a bolt of unease was shaking every creature in the control room to the core. The loyal knew fear and the burning question of how many more were traitors, how quickly would they rise up? The vast majority felt a cautious sort of hope, wondering the same things, mingled with a sense of regret, wondering how long they’d served, how long they’d toiled in misery while some of the strongest among them held such secrets.

                Frieza tapped some buttons on the arm of his chair, and Vegeta’s voice rang out again, and again. _It was me. It was me. It was me._ “That fucking SNAKE!” Frieza shrieked the last word, slamming his fist down into the arm, smashing right through his control panel so that it began to spark and sizzle, unnoticed by the furious tyrant. “I want every available man after him! Right now!”

                “Sir, is that wise?” Said the man at his left, a creature he’d brought up from the ranks to replace Zarbon as his aide. So far, he was a disappointment in all but looks and the diminutive tyrant hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. Frieza glared, fire in his eyes, and he panicked, backpedalling quickly. “I um, meant no disrespect, my lord.” He stammered. “It was only, I thought it might gain support for the cause if it is known the resistance has such a strong leader.”

                “Vegeta,” Frieza spat the word out, like an unappetizing piece of gristle in his meat, “is a lowly little worm compared to me. And the resistance is a pathetic band of weaklings and children. Are you honestly insisting that _I_ should be afraid of them?”

                “N...no sir. Absolutely not, sir.” The replacement-Zarbon simpered and bowed, and Frieza sneered. Traitor or not, at least Zarbon had voiced his thoughts. Truth be told, Frieza knew that this one had a point – the number of turncoats and traitors would swell in the wake of such news, but Frieza was looking oh-so-forward to crushing them even more because of it.

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                “It’s out!” Puar shrieked, just as Vegeta was about to leave the room. “The order just went out; every available ship is to get it’s ass on over to our coordinates. Not long before the public begins to hear about it.” Vegeta frowned, looking at the clock on the wall, just about to open his mouth and give the order to evacuate, when a great, bellowing groan came from beneath their feet, followed quickly by a bang and a judder that set them all reeling for a moment. Vegeta cocked his head, listening to the muffled shouts of joy coming from the deepest bowels of the ship.

                “They’ve done it!” Roshi cheered, clapping his hands. “They’ve got the engines going, right?”

                “All of you but the cat,” Vegeta ordered, “to the eastern deck, NOW! We have to finish emptying it and get a move on before anyone catches up with us. Cat, continue listening.”

                With the addition of Vegeta, Roshi, Oolong, and Tien, the job in the eastern deck was finished in about fifteen minutes, even if that meant the ‘keep’ pile was strewn about just inside the door of the ship proper to be dealt with later, much to Chichi’s consternation. Once they were well and away, she knew Vegeta would no longer give a shit what was where, and it would be up to her to bully some of her shipmates into helping her clean up the mess. Sixteen raced up to the control room to input the command for the airlock to close off the eastern deck, and everyone watched the view screens with awe as the joints were sprung and the huge chunk of Red Station drew slowly away. Sequestered away in Gero’s lab, Bulma and her father fired up the engines and set course before joining the others upstairs to they could watch as Sixteen fired on the piece that they were leaving behind.

                “Where are we going?” Chichi asked, as bits and chunks of their home scattered off into space.

                “Away.” Bulma shrugged and pushed her hair back, thinking also of the bodies that they had cast off, and wondering what would happen to them. “For now, at least. I figured we could pick an actual destination once we got moving.”

                “Sounds good.” Chichi sighed, looking around at all the new faces. “We are really going to have to figure out some new living arrangements though, until we get wherever it is we’re going.”

                “Don’t worry too hard, Chi.” Bulma patted her friend on the shoulder. “At least we won’t have to do any extra cooking. Nameks only drink water.”

                “Well,” Chichi wiped her hands on her apron, preparing to take charge of things, “thank goodness for that!”


	35. Chapter 35

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  Sorry for the delay, folks. I’ve been indulging in a lot of time wastery this past month. Hopefully the fact that this chapter is almost twice as long as the average will make up for it a little. Also, there’s some sex, so have fun with that! I’m also (slowly) working to get the previous chapters formatted properly on FFN (I can’t believe I went that long without realizing that all of my time and place breaks were missing – kudos to all of you who’ve stuck around and read, despite that fact. I know it would annoy me) so apologies if author alerts are being spammed. I’ve being doing small chunks with the last few updates, but I think I might go ahead and just get it done.

 

THIS CHAPTER IS RATED NC-17. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ AN ‘M’ RATED VERSION, PLEASE DO SO ON FANFICTION dot NET..

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PRESENT DAY

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                “Tell me, did you know?” Zarbon’s head snapped up, though bound as he was, he could not turn to see Frieza behind him.

                “Did I know what?” Zarbon rasped, his tongue thick with dryness. How long had it been since he’d been given something to drink? He let his head droop again – no sense straining himself when it wouldn’t do any good. He was firmly trussed and being able to look at his tormentor was not going to change whatever Frieza had in mind to do to him. He’d almost rather not see it coming, to be honest.

                “Oh, poor little fools. Did he know about you, I wonder?” Frieza sneered and Zarbon could hear the tyrant pacing, clawed feet clicking on the cold, metal floor. “Imagine the damage you could have done, had you teamed up.”

                “Are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me guess?” Zarbon asked, and to his surprise, there was no lash of anger, no crash of a fist against his face, or nails raking across his back. Frieza simply laughed and Zarbon heard him step closer, tapping his long fingernails on the tabletop as he went.

                “When did you get so contrary, pet? It doesn’t suit.” Frieza let out an exaggerated sigh, and suddenly he was crouching down in front of Zarbon’s restrained form, one finger extended to lift up the captive man’s head. “You were so good, and now look at you. Giving me _sass_.” He spat the words out, face suddenly twisting into an ugly sneer as his hand shifted to pinch Zarbon’s cheeks inward, smooshing his lips out like that of a fish. “I can’t stand it. First you, and now Vegeta...what’s next?” He let go of Zarbon’s face and stood, turning away, tail whipping across the floor, the violent motion a frightening clue of what was to come. “And now Ginyu is dead,” Frieza turned and cocked his head, “it seems my loyal warriors are just dropping like flies.” He fluttered his fingers in the air, raised a brow ridge, and smiled. “You know pet, it really is too bad you didn’t know that Vegeta was Vengeance. You might have gotten away, had your information network been a little better.”

                “V...Vegeta?” Zarbon sputtered, his bloodshot eyes going wide...well, the left one did. The right one was swollen shut, a shiny slit of iris peeking out from behind bruised lids, courtesy of a previous session with Frieza’s disciplinarians.

                “Oh Zarbon, poor Zarbon.” Frieza laughed. “Always coming in second to that little ape, weren’t you? You weren’t even as good at betraying me! Pathetic.”

                “You think I care? I’m just happy to have lived this long, to see your throne crumbling right out from under you.” Zarbon hissed, trying his best to keep up a brave face in the knowledge that he’d been so close to the most powerful and accomplished rebel in Frieza’s kingdom, and he hadn’t even known it. He cursed his blindness, imagining what they could have accomplished had they known of each other, had they the opportunity to join forces. Still though, he was glad for the news that Ginyu was dead; he’d worried about suggesting that tactic, but it had been the only way to buy himself time. “I’m glad it’s him,” Zarbon continued brashly, “because if there’s anyone in the universe who wants to see your head on a pike more, I’ve yet to meet him. Vegeta will get the job done.” That one earned him a slap, and he moaned in pain as his neck snapped to the side, a bruise blooming quickly on his left cheek to counterbalance the one that mottled his right eye.

                “Do shut up, Zarbon. You’re becoming tiresome.” Frieza shrugged his shoulders, turned and paced slowly over to the table, his hands dancing over the various instruments laid out there. “Why I don’t just kill you is a mystery, even to me.” He picked up a pair of scissors and turned, grinning, to meet Zarbon’s eyes. “Sentiment, I suppose. Though even my tender heart has its limits.” He was back in front of Zarbon, crouching down on his haunches. Gently, Frieza laid the scissors down – shiny, sharp steel things – and put his cold hand on Zarbon’s head, ran down to the end of the green braid hanging over his shoulder, pulling out the ribbon as he went.

                “What are you doing?” Zarbon hissed, as panic shot through him. His good eye darted down to the scissors, now partially obscured by Frieza’s hand as it worked gently through his hair, undoing the braid and leaving it to hang, long and luxurious despite the blood and dirt at his scalp.

                “I always did like your hair.” Frieza trilled, running his nails slowly over Zarbon’s scalp and down, feeling the silky tresses slip through his fingers. He picked up the scissors and leaned in close to whisper in his captive’s ear. “I think I’ll keep it.”

                “No!” Zarbon bucked and reared as he heard the snickit of the blades against each other. He choked back  vomit as the first chunk of his hair hit the floor and Frieza reached for another, viciously yanking his head down as he tried to pull away.

                “Stay still, pretty.” Frieza cooed as he snipped haphazardly through Zarbon’s once proud mane, decimating so many years’ worth of careful maintenance and routine. “It will be over soon.”

                “Ngh!” Zarbon yanked and struggled to no avail, his heart pounding like a drum as he watched the pile on the floor grow, unable to do anything about it. Even if he begged Frieza to stop, even if the monster somehow took pity and decided to oblige, his beautiful hair was gone, destroyed, and nothing would bring it back. He felt the bile burning in his throat, and struggled to keep it down. His stomach clenched in protest as he swallowed it back, coughing and choking as it burned its way down.

                “Hmm...” Frieza sat back, scissors in one hand and chin in the other. “Well now that I’ve made such a mess of it,” he shrugged and cocked his head to one side. “I’m not so sure I want it anymore.” He tossed the scissors to the floor and turned away, leaving the room without another word. “Two days from now, bring him a mirror.” He instructed the guard, after the door slid shut. “Put it on the floor right beneath his face and leave the lights on all night.”

                “Um, of course, your Lordship.” The guard saluted and made a mental note of it, even though he figured he could think of a million things that would be worse than a bad haircut. He was too new to the job to know Zarbon, but everyone knew that disobeying even the most absurd of Frieza’s orders was a sure death sentence.

                Alone inside, Zarbon watched his tears drop down, staining his discarded hair the deep, dark emerald that he had always found so flattering. Wet hair was so shiny, so sleek, with such a nice, sensual weight to it. He remembered more frivolous days, when he’d stare at himself for what seemed like hours after bathing, admiring the rich bounty of his mane, wishing it would stay such a deep colour when dry, and yet unwilling to damage it with chemical dyes. And now it was nothing more than garbage, sitting on a cold, hard floor, sopping wet with the tears of a pathetic has-been whose only accomplishment in life was to nearly cripple the very operation he’d been secretly striving to aid.

                “So...fucking...stupid.” He cried, sniffling and desperate to wipe his nose and eyes; an impossible task with his arms tied back as they were. “Fuck. FUCK!” He struggled vainly at his restraints, yanking his arms and kicking his legs until it hurt too much to bear. Panting, he hung there, trying to regain control of his emotions. The shine of the scissors drew his eye, sharp blades taunting, and he thought that perhaps it was good that he was restrained, otherwise he might have picked them up to score his own throat.

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                “Nappa, you have to get him out of there.” Bulma crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the ground, glaring up at the hulking saiyan warrior, who simply shrugged. “He’s been in there for two days!” She shrieked, and Nappa winced as the pitch pierced his ears. “He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten. Kami knows, he probably hasn’t even taken a bathroom break! He’s going to kill himself!”

                “I couldn’t go in there, even if I wanted to.” Nappa gestured at the control panel of the recently completed gravity room, and Bulma cursed herself for having made the damn thing so powerful. “Gravity’s up too high. And Vegeta would also kill me for disturbing him.” They both peered in, heads close together in the small window, awed by the prince’s golden form as he darted around, nearly too fast for Bulma’s eyes to keep up.

                “We can’t just let him go on like this.” Bulma huffed, and Nappa raised an eyebrow.

                “So _you_ do something about it. Didn’t you build in some sort of override mechanism?” He asked, and when Bulma didn’t reply, he snorted and shook his head. “Oh, I get it. You can definitely do it yourself, but you just don’t want to be the one to get yelled at.” Nappa chuckled as the human’s cheeks reddened, and she opened her mouth to deny his accusations. “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t kill his own mate.” He interrupted her, grinning. Then he patted her on the shoulder and turned to leave, not wanting to be around when the gravity went off and the prince came out. “He’ll be plenty pissed, of course, but he probably won’t hurt you.”

                Bulma sighed and her shoulders slumped as Nappa left her all alone to face Vegeta’s certain wrath. He was right; Vegeta _wouldn’t_ hurt her, she was mostly certain, but he could sure yell, and had a creative and varied arsenal of insults at his disposal and while she was normally a match for him, her brain did not feel up to snuff. She was tired and overworked, and under such circumstances her best comebacks usually consisted of “Yeah, well you’re a JERK!” or some variation thereof. Bulma did not need the added weight of going head to head with Vegeta on her shoulders, which were already piled high.

After the stress of getting Red Station moving, she’d gone immediately to work on finishing the gravity room, and once that was complete, she’d gone back to all the other projects that she’d left in limbo during the interim _and_ begun the tedious job of sorting through Gero’s lab. The threat of Frieza hung over everyone on the ship, causing an unnatural atmosphere of tension that had them all walking on eggshells for fear of setting each other off. Vegeta especially had been little more than a big, brooding ball of negative energy, so while his cloistering himself away in the GR for the past two days had done wonders for the ship’s atmosphere, Bulma was actually beginning to worry about him.

“Man up, Bulma,” she muttered, shaking her head and throwing her shoulders back. “You can take whatever heat he throws at you. You’re Bulma Briefs, super genius and model of feminine beauty.” She tightened her ponytail and checked her teeth in the blurry reflection of the shiny metal wall. “Plus if he’s that pissed, you can always offer sexual favours.” She muttered the last bit under her breath as her fingers flew over the control panel, entering in the override code that would shut the whole thing down. Bulma stepped back and held her breath as the gravity reading began to plummet.

Inside the machine, Vegeta paused his high speed katas as he felt the weight of the air begin to lift from his straining muscles. He scowled, catching a glimpse of blue hair as Bulma stepped away from the control panel to await his emergence. He could feel her there, just beyond the door, pulsing with worry even though he knew he was likely in for an earful as soon as he cracked the door. Truth be told, he hadn’t really meant to sequester himself inside the GR for so long, but the feel of Super Saiyan power flowing through his veins was addictive and he’d found that as soon as he stepped in, he was driven to push it harder, to test his new strength and find his limits. He’d yet to tire himself out, and so he’d yet to leave. Not only that, but the solitary confinement was a soothing balm to the roiling thoughts in his brain, the ones that refused to shut up every time he so much as thought of his transformation. In training he could drown them out, but they gnawed at him otherwise and obsessive as he was, he could not let them be.

The memory of Guru’s last heartbeat reverberating through his own body bounced around inside his head, whispering to him that he didn’t deserve the power, that he hadn’t rightfully accomplished it. He hadn’t tamed the beast by his own hand; he’d had help, and while he was proud of himself and pleased in his strength, the knowledge galled him and baited the fury in his soul, the one that said it was not good enough, that _he_ was not good enough.

The gravity hit zero and Vegeta dropped to the ground, forcibly stuffing that little monster back into its cage, plastering over the hesitation and uncertainty before his toes touched the floor. There were other things to be dealt with, such as finding out why in the hell Bulma had shut down his machine and put a halt to his training. Vegeta stepped out, scowl on his face and chiselled torso shining with sweat, and Bulma began to think that sexual favours might just be a perk instead of a consolation prize.

“There had better,” Vegeta snapped, “be a good reason for this.”

“Um...sudden and unflagging desire to go down on you?” Bulma shrugged, grinning impishly, and though he knew it was a joke, Vegeta found a sudden spike of interest trilling through him.

“Is that so?” He asked, voice low, as he stepped closer. “I’m sure I could indulge you.” His golden tail flickered around his knees and his gloved fingers twitched, as though aching to grab her. Bulma watched him move, honestly surprised at his easy reaction, and made a mental note to use this tactic again in the future. Then again, fighting always seemed to make the boys randy, so maybe it would only work in high-testosterone situations. Either way, she was prepared to take whatever shortcuts the gods of the universe saw fit to grant her.

“You know,” Bulma stepped toward him and ran a finger down his chest, gasping as a little shock ran through her. She could _feel_ the power rolling off of him, just like the first time he’d transformed.  “I’ve never done it with a super saiyan before.” She winked up at him and wiggled her hips, shimmying just a bit closer.

“Feh.” Vegeta snorted, stepping backward into the doorway of the GR. He jerked his head toward the door and turned, heading in with complete confidence that she would follow. Bulma rolled her eyes and laughed, but went after him, grabbing for the zipper tab of her coveralls before she’d even finished closing the door. It was a bit unnerving, turning around to find this blue eyed, blonde haired version of Vegeta, staring her down from across the room. He had always been intense and while the new pigmentation made him look a little less like the devil incarnate, the angelic facade was completely ruined by the smouldering fire that burned in his eyes and the electric snap of power that surrounded him. “Come here.” Vegeta ordered, crooking one gloved finger at her before pointing at the floor before him.

“Why don’t you come here?” Bulma smiled coyly and leaned back against the door, wishing that her hair was loose so she could curl it about her finger like a movie heroine. She settled instead for pulling the zipper of her coveralls down a little more to reveal the slinky tank top she wore beneath.  She’d been planning to check out the engines and it was damn hot down there – if her choice of dress was helpful in more than one situation, well then so be it.

“No, really. Come here.” Vegeta shook his head and grinned wolfishly at her. “Unless you want anyone who happens to peek in that window to see you spread for me. The angle of the door makes this section of the room a blind spot.” He gestured a rough area with his hands as Bulma quick-stepped her way toward him. So much for playing the sultry bombshell, she thought, rolling her eyes and wondering how she could have forgotten that little fact. The tiredness was really catching up to her.

“I see you’ve thought this through.” She said wryly as she reached him. She really hated it when Vegeta was right, but her irritation was tempered by the sight of him, half naked, sweaty and straining in his tight shorts.

“What, you haven’t?” He asked, reaching for her zipper and yanking it all the way down. “Vulgar woman that you are, I would have thought you’d have a map of all the best spots throughout the ship.”

“You’re the one that wants to have it off in the GR.” She countered, pulling her arms free of the coveralls so that the whole thing slid to the ground, revealing the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything but her underwear beneath. She stepped away from the puddle of fabric and bent down quickly, patting down pockets until she came up with what she was looking for.

“You’re the one that offered.” Vegeta said taking the foil packet from her with a raised eyebrow. Bulma shrugged, raising her own eyebrows back as she stood up again. He’d ambushed her enough times that she’d begun stashing condoms on her person, so what? He called it premeditation, she called it preparedness. “And this?”  Vegeta closed the gap between them, turning so that she was effectively trapped against the wall. “In fact,” he added, running a finger down over her skimpy top and hooking it in the band of her panties, “I’m beginning to think you actually _planned_ it all.”

“I was going to work on the engines.” Bulma insisted _,_ though she grabbed the back of his head with one hand and pulling him down for a kiss that left him doubting her next statement. “None of this is for you.”

“All of this is for me.” Vegeta rumbled, sliding his hand around to cup her bottom while the other found her breast, sending shockwaves through her skin. He lowered his mouth to hers again and she moaned, pressing her whole body against him, beginning to understand why he’d spent the last several days as a super saiyan. If her body was experiencing even a fraction of what was running through his veins...

“Ditto.” Bulma managed between kisses arching as he tossed his gloves aside to run bare hands down her back. “Oh Vegeta,” she gasped, a trail of tingling skin following in the wake of his touch, “it’s like...like pure electricity.” She shivered with delight as his hands moved up, running over her shoulders, up her neck, one pulling the elastic from her hair as the other cradled the back of her head, fingers tangling in her curls.

Bulma squeaked with surprise as she was backed into the wall, the metal cold on her exposed skin. Vegeta’s hands slid down to her shoulders, pushing down with gentle pressure. “On your knees.” He rasped into her ear as one hand ran up her throat and over her jaw, thumb running over her plump lower lip.  He groaned into her shoulder as she drew the digit into her mouth, flicking it with her tongue and biting gently down. She reached down with one hand and drew him out of his shorts, feeling warmth shoot through her belly as she grasped the hard length of him. He shivered, pulling his hands away from her to brace them on the wall, body bowing outward so that she could duck down.

“Tsk, tsk. So impatient.” She whispered, teasing him with her fingers and with the sight of her puckered mouth. He liked her lips, she’d discovered long ago, and he liked them more when they were on his body. His mouth twitched as though he were holding back a snarl and she winked up at him, trailing kisses down his stomach as she slid to her knees. He watched her all the way down, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, mouth dry with anticipation.

Vegeta couldn’t contain the shudder that wracked his body when her lips first touched the head of his penis, mouth slowly opening to take him in. His fingers clenched against the wall as he fought the urge to grasp her by the hair and ram himself deep into her throat. His breath hitched and she looked up at him, eyes twinkling as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and was revelling in her torture of him. He really did snarl at her then, baring his teeth like an angry beast. Bulma batted her lashes at him and ran her hands up his thighs, grasping his hips to steady herself as she took him the rest of the way in and held him there for a moment, pressed up against the back of her throat, before bobbing her head backward to release him completely. She pressed a kiss on his hip bone, resting her forehead against him as one hand trailed down, nails scraping gently against hyper-sensitive skin, to cup his balls. He jerked as the other hand reached around to roll the base of his tail between thumb and forefinger.

“Ve,” she kissed the soft skin right above the base of his penis, “Ge,” another, planted this time on the side of the shaft, “Tahhhhh,” she drew out the last syllable of his name in a sigh, her mouth poised directly before him. “You’re going to come out of here after this.” She looked up at him from beneath coyly lowered lashes. “You’re going to have a nice, big meal and then you can do whatever you want for a few hours, before you come to bed with me.” She licked her lips. “I miss you.”

“I have training to do.” Vegeta ground out through clenched teeth, unable to tear his eyes from her mouth, a scant centimetre away from the tip of him. His whole body was vibrating with the work of her hands and he narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his brain on something other than the building pressure in his groin.

“You can do that tomorrow.” Bulma blew on his wet skin with puckered lips. “If you come to bed, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.” She pulled the hand from between his legs, running it along her neck and down over one breast, pinching her nipple between two fingers through the fabric of her clothing.

“Has it occurred to you,” Vegeta growled, his hands swooping down to hoist her up and pin her to him in one quick move, “that I could do whatever I wanted to you anyway, with or without your permission?” He spun her in his arms, clamping one arm around her middle to hold her back against him, erection pressed firmly against her backside. His other hand was hot against her ribcage as he yanked her shirt up, leaving it to rest above her breasts. He could feel her heart racing as he pulled one bra cup down to reveal a tight, pebbled nipple, before doing the same on the other side. “See how you want me?” He nipped the side of her neck and pinched her lightly between his fingers. The condom packet, still nestled in his fist, rasped against her skin. “And down here,” the hand around her waist slid between her legs, “you’re soaked right through.” He rubbed her through damp fabric and she couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips. “Just _try_ to deny me, Bulma.” He whispered, pushing beneath her panties to slip two fingers inside.

“And what’s this?” She countered, pressing backward against his erection. “You’re not so unaffected.” She panted, nails digging into his arm as his hand moved against her. He pulled his hand from her and she whimpered at the sudden loss of sensation, only to be spun once more and cradled in his arms. He lowered himself to the floor, pulling her down on top of him, knees spread wide to straddle his hips. He tore at the foil with his teeth and rolled the condom over himself with one hand, while the other slid between Bulma’s legs once more, yanking the crotch of her panties to the side, too impatient to remove them. She lowered herself down onto him, biting her bottom lip as she felt him fill her, stretch her, until she was sitting right down on his pelvis. He brought his knees up, bracing his feet against the floor, and she leaned back against them, wondering when he’d found time to kick off his boots.

Vegeta bent his head to nuzzle her breasts, still exposed between a yanked up shirt and pulled down bra, one hand coming up to knead the soft flesh while his lips and tongue lavished attention on the other.  She grasped handfuls of his blonde hair, the tips of her fingers tingling as she ran them along his scalp, and rolled her hips against him. He let go of her breast and grasped her with both hands, helping her to move on him, keeping the pace as her writhing became jerky and frantic. She leaned forward, pressing herself against him, burying her face in his neck to quiet her cries as the sound of flesh slapping together echoed about the room.

The electric effect of his ki was stronger with him inside her, zipping up through her insides and pairing with the feel of his aura surrounding her to make her whole body hum with energy. She came quickly and with an intensity that left her reeling, as though she’d just hooked her clit up to a car battery. Her skin sizzled with the heat of it, and sparks danced before her eyes when she felt the pulse of Vegeta’s release a few seconds later, accompanied by a blinding flash of ki that shot straight through her and had her coming again; a miniature earthquake in the wake of a massive one.

They sat, panting and slumped against each other on the floor, for a long time before Vegeta finally lifted Bulma’s hips up so that he could pull out of her. “Oh my...” Bulma moaned as Vegeta set her back down. He dropped out of Super Saiyan a moment later, finally so exhausted that he could no longer continue to maintain it. The exertion of the fine control required so that he would not damage her had actually been an excellent training exercise, and he was beginning to reconsider his decision to spend his nights alone in the GR, rather than in a bed with Bulma.

“Food.” She said, suddenly, lurching to her feet and awkwardly tugging her clothes back into place before snatching up her coveralls. “I am starved.” She stepped in and zipped up as Vegeta found and replaced his shorts and boots. He also grabbed the shirt that he’d discarded before Bulma’s interruption and pulled it on. His stomach rumbled and she took it for agreement and led the way out of the GR and toward the kitchen.

.

.

Gohan eyed his new roommate with trepidation, not really sure what to do or say. It had been Bulma’s idea for Dende to move in with Gohan, seeing as Radditz was now firmly ensconced in Puar’s room, and he supposed her heart had been in the right place. What Bulma and the other earthlings saw were two boys of a similar age, both of whom looked in need of a playmate. The namek contingent hadn’t reacted well to her suggestion; they didn’t want their young leader rooming with a boy they saw as dangerous and bloodthirsty. The saiyans had also objected; they didn’t want their young charge rooming with a boy they saw as weak and soft.

Dende’s eagerness to room with the youngest saiyan had come as a surprise to all of them, especially his new charges, and Gohan had quickly agreed because his only other option was to share with Nappa, widely known throughout the universe as the worst roommate ever. Their united front, combined with various threats of a bedroom nature from Bulma to Vegeta, had solidified the deal. The boys, however, were far from being the two cute peas in a pod that the humans had been imagining. In fact, they’d hardly spoken since the day that Gohan had shown Dende in , pointed to Radditz’s old bed, and said “That’s your bunk. I’ll make sure the sheets get changed before you have to sleep in it.”

Dende, unlike Piccolo, did actually sleep. Or at least seemed to, it was hard to tell. Gohan had been surprised to learn that little fact, but thought maybe there was a difference since Dende was still a child, or something to do with the fact that a part of Piccolo had once been Earth’s guardian. Or maybe the earth namek was just weird; Gohan wasn’t sure and was too polite to bother the shell-shocked Dende with what the other boy would probably consider a stupid question. More pertinent questions, however, were still on the table.

“Why’d you want to room with me, anyway?” Gohan blurted out, his uncle’s influence plainly showing, before he covered his mouth with his hands in embarrassment. Dende paused in the act of folding down his covers and looked shyly over at his half-saiyan bunkmate, with his unruly hair and black, black eyes, freakishly well developed muscles visible beneath his fitted pyjamas. He found the other boy intimidating.

“I...” he began, pausing to gather his thoughts as he crawled into his own bed. “I do not know what to do around the others.” He said finally, brow ridges drawing together in consternation. “I am supposed to lead them. They expect much of me and I am not sure that I am capable of being what they need me to be. Guru’s knowledge flows through me and I feel as though he left something of himself in my heart...but I lack his confidence.” The green child sighed and clasped his hands together in his lap. “In your presence, or Bulma’s, or that of the other earthlings, I am viewed simply as a child. As one who should be protected rather than one who is expected to know and be all to men several times his own age.”

“Oh.” Gohan said, rather inadequately. He’d been there, of course, when Guru bestowed whatever it was he had to bestow on Dende, but the implications of that gift had not been clear to the non-nameks among the group. He tried to think of something else to say, perhaps something to change the subject, but he did not want to appear bored or insensitive.

“Why did you agree to room with me?” Dende asked, after a moment of awkward silence.

“Nappa farts in his sleep.” Gohan sheepishly admitted, and couldn’t help but laugh when Dende made a face. “It was you or him. Vegeta never would have let me room with one of my dad’s earthling friends. He thinks they have too much influence already.”

“Vegeta is...like _your_ Guru, yes?” Dende ventured, turning in his bed to face Gohan, who was already sitting with his back to the wall, looking right back.

“He’s our leader, and the legendary...but like Guru? I wouldn’t say it quite like that.” Gohan scratched his head, thinking hard on that one and trying not to laugh at the image of a thousand-pound, mumu-clad Vegeta.

“But he has it...I have seen in him the same...magnetism.” Dende frowned, searching for a better word and could come up with none. “You follow him as we did Guru, would do anything for him, anything he said without second thought. Even the humans are in awe of him.”

“He’s very strong...” Gohan nodded. “And not very friendly. Of course they steer clear of him.”

“More than that.” Dende shook his head. “It is something in him. Something that Guru had, and that I am now expected to cultivate. Tell me, Gohan, if Vegeta died tomorrow, would you be able to step into his role? This is the task that faces me.” The little green boy nodded to himself, pleased with the comparison.

“I’ll help you.” Gohan said, with all of his father’s famous impulsivity, and Dende smiled a sharp-toothed grin to see the rough looking little half saiyan leaning forward on his knees, eyes wide and pyjamas rumpled, promising his aid.

“You are...kinder...than I expected.” Dende nodded his head and Gohan sat back, feeling bashful and a little bewildered by the comment. He’d spent the last few years of his life trying to toughen up, and it surprised him to realize how much it meant to hear that another being thought he was nice. “I have heard many things of saiyans, and most of them frightening.”

“We’re not so bad.” Gohan shrugged.

“I am beginning to see that.” Dende said, one hand reaching to rest just above his heart in the place that he felt Guru’s presence most strongly. All the knowledge and hope that the old sage had been able to give him sat there, and he suddenly felt as though his teacher was there beside him, smiling down, nodding along with pleasure, and Dende knew that things would be okay. Perhaps not right away, perhaps not for a very long time, but he would live to see the dawn of a new age.

Long after Dende had fallen into the half-meditation of sleep that child or normal nameks engaged in – Gohan still didn’t know and wasn’t sure if it was an appropriate question to ask – the half-saiyan lay awake and completely unable to sleep, with Dende’s words ringing through his brain. If Vegeta died tomorrow, what in hell would they all do? Maybe tomorrow was a bit silly, but it wasn’t a stretch to think that he might actually be killed when fighting Frieza, and now that the prince was a super saiyan, the challenge couldn’t be too far off. In fact, Gohan was a little surprised that Vegeta hadn’t just hopped into a ship and gone off to do battle the second he transformed. Or after he’d seen the rest of them safe. Or in the few weeks since. Vegeta wasn’t ready to fight the icejin tyrant, and that frightened Gohan to no end. He’d been there at Vegeta’s transformation, felt the prince’s  power stop his heart, and the idea that Frieza might still be stronger made his skin crawl.

With a heavy sigh, Gohan kicked off his blankets and slid out of bed, scuffling around in the dark as he tried to find his boots and training gear without waking Dende. Middle-of-the-night training was a common result of insomnia in saiyans, and Gohan was no exception. In fact, Radditz sometimes used to _cause_ insomnia in his nephew, just so he’d have a sparring partner for all the 2am moments of sleeplessness he suffered.

Gohan resisted the urge to cry out in victory as he finally located his left boot under the bed – the last piece of his kit. He gathered it all up in his arms and crept from the room, padding barefoot down the hall in his pyjamas. He ducked into the bathroom to change and left his jammies hanging neatly just outside the shower stalls to await his return. Ten or twenty minutes of katas, followed by a half hour or so of shadow boxing would do, he figured. Follow it up with a nice, hot shower and he’d be back in bed within the hour, hopefully ready to sleep.

Gohan was not surprised to find that the gravity room was occupied when he arrived, but he was shocked to find that it was his father alone inside, rather than one of the more traditionally insomniac members of the team. Vegeta or Radditz, for example, or Piccolo and Tien, among the non-saiyan contingent of Red Station, were often found wandering the halls long after everyone else had gone to sleep. Goku, however, was an easy sleeper and rarely found out and about past nine or ten at night.

Gohan knocked on the door and waved at his father through the port hole. Goku looked a little surprised to see his son up so late, but quickly crossed to the control panel and set the gravity down so that the door could be opened. “Heya, dad.” Gohan stepped inside as soon as the door opened up. “Mind if I train with you for a while?”

“Yeah, no problem Gohan.” Goku shrugged and gestured toward the open expanse of the chamber. “The more the merrier.” He wiped the sweat from his brow and walked back to the control console. “I was working in ten times Earth’s gravity, if that’s okay with you.” Goku tapped some buttons and they both braced themselves as the pressure inside the room worked its way slowly up to ten. Gohan watched his father from the corner of his eye, all too aware of how much the change was affecting him.

“Nappa told me that this is about what Vegetasei’s gravity was. What a head start.” Gohan said, by way of conversation as he began his stretches. “Makes you wonder if we’d have been as strong as they are if we’d lived there, huh?” He added.

“Wow.” Goku chuckled hollowly and did a few stretches of his own. “Yeah, maybe.” He shrugged and felt a trill of unhappiness go through him as he watched his son move so easily under the same force that he’d only just worked up to himself. He was, of course, beyond pleased to see that his son had made such great strides in terms of power, but at the same time wishing that he could say the same thing of himself. He’d been training steadily since his rescue from the slaver camp and yet he did not feel as though he’d made any great strides during that time. It was incredibly frustrating, not to mention discouraging, for a man who was used to expanding his power in leaps and bounds. “Hey, you know what?” Goku walked back over to the control panel and began fiddling with the display. “I can definitely go higher. Yeah. I’ve worked up to twenty, at least.” He grinned and tensed, willing his muscles to hold him up as the artificial gravity fought to push him down. He didn’t want his son to see how challenging it was, just to stand under such force.

“Great!” Gohan cheered, wilfully ignoring the slight tremor that ran through his father’s legs as he crouched into battle position. “Don’t go easy on me, dad!” He grinned, a mirror of his father, and crouched low as well. Gohan made the first move, springing forward with an easy punch that Goku sidestepped effortlessly.

“Maybe I should be saying the exact same thing to you, Gohan.” Goku said, and Gohan was surprised to hear a hint of irritation in his father’s voice. He stopped still, a little taken aback by the foreign tone. It was something he expected of Radditz, Nappa, and Vegeta, but his father had never been anything but patient with him, and it had Gohan wondering how well he really knew his own parents. By rights, Radditz had been more a father to him than his own for the past two or so years, and though he knew that Goku would have done anything in the world to have been able to change that, the censuring tone in his father’s voice still raised his hackles just a bit.

“Fine.” He snapped, launching at Goku with a barrage of punches. If he wanted a full out match, who was Gohan to deny him?

.

Bulma sighed and snuggled against Vegeta, idly tracing patterns over his bare chest with one finger. Sex with a super saiyan was fucking _awesome_ , but so was sex with plain old Vegeta, and it was easier in the dark too; no blinding aura of ki to destroy the salacious sensation of making love to someone you couldn’t actually see. Bulma smiled languidly into the darkness and she turned her head a little to press a kiss into Vegeta’s shoulder before laying it back down. Something about their encounter in the gravity room had ignited a spark in the prince which had not been extinguished along with the bright flame of his golden hair. They’d gone from the GR to the kitchen, and then straight to bed after a hastily devoured snack. It was as though he couldn’t keep his hands off of her.

“Hmm?” Vegeta hummed an inquiry deep in his throat when he felt Bulma’s lips press against his skin. “Again?” He asked as the heat of her kiss shot straight to his groin.

“Gods, no.” Bulma laughed softly, shifting against him as her trailing fingers dipped lower, beneath the blankets. “I’m already going to be walking funny for a week.” She smiled, hearing his quick intake of breath as she took him in her hand.

“Bulma...” He hissed as the arm that had been draped around her shoulders came up, his hand tangling in the hair at the back of her head.

“Oh relax and enjoy it, Vegeta.” Bulma whispered. “You’re still so tense, even after all that. You could use another one.”

“And you couldn’t?” He’d turned his head and was murmuring into the crown of her hair, and despite her protests, reached down to pull her fingers away from him. “It’s better this way.” He asserted, just in case he was coming across as too nice, and rolled on top of her.

“Okay, but I don’t wanna do any work.” Bulma giggled as she heard the telltale crinkle of wrapping.

“Lazy.” Vegeta snorted, parting her thighs with his hands, making sure she was ready for him. “You are the most slothful female I have ever met, and it is a wonder to me that you are not morbidly obese.” He slid into her, slowly, and she could feel the fatigue surrounding him, pressing down like a weight on both of them.

“Good genetics.” She pulled his head down to hers for a kiss, pressing down on his lower back with the other, trying to encourage him to rest a bit of his weight on her body. He knew how heavy he was, despite his small stature, and she had noticed that he was always desperately careful not to crush her. Like usual, he resisted her efforts. “I like the weight of a man on top, sometimes. You, in particular.” She pouted, her full lips brushing his ever so slightly as she spoke, and she felt his resolve crumbling. “It’s kind of hot.”

“Vulgar.” He hissed, though he dropped to his elbows and obliged, silently grateful for the little bit of rest it afforded. He buried his face in her neck and she bent her head to the side, knowing that he was likely to put his teeth on her once he came close to finishing.

“Sexually liberated.” Bulma countered with a smile that he couldn’t see. “And not afraid to ask for what I want.” She ran her hands up his back and down around the base of his tail, feeling him jerk against her with the shock of the added sensation. She felt the familiar clamp of his jaw and arched against him as he upped his pace, feeling rather close herself. They both came quickly, bodies primed from the hours they’d spent doing the same thing already, but Bulma could tell, as Vegeta pulled himself from her and rolled off, that something was still not quite right with him. His body was still tense and while she certainly appreciated the attention, he’d never, _ever_ spent such a large block of time focused solely on her. Between that and the break-neck training, it was obvious that something was bothering him.

“You’re thinking too loud.” Vegeta grumbled, startling her train of thought.

“Oh what, you’re telepathic now?” Bulma snorted, though she cuddled in next to him.

“You hum sometimes, when you’re working out a thought.” Vegeta clarified, shifting so that she could squirm in under his arm. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he kind of liked curling up with her at night. “You’re doing it now.”

“Oh I do not!” Bulma swatted him on the chest, trying not to be embarrassed. No one had ever told her that before, but saiyans also possessed exceptional hearing so it was possible that no one had ever noticed before. He didn’t respond so she resumed her earlier finger tracings on his skin and though she was thinking hard, she tried not to make her noises. “So,” she ventured after about ten minutes of silence, “what could cause history’s mightiest saiyan to be so tied up in knots?”

“Are you still awake?” Vegeta growled and rolled over, disengaging her from his semi-embrace and putting his back to her.

“Hey, jerkface, I’m talking to you!” Bulma scooted up against his back, clutching one shoulder with her hand while the other arm propped her up. “You’re not yourself lately. I thought ascending would make you happy, but instead you’ve just become even more edgy and surly.”

“Frieza is going to be coming after us. I think that is reason enough to be on edge.”

“It is, yeah.” Bulma was not going to be put off. “But that’s not what’s bothering you. If that was it, nothing would have dragged you from the gravity room today.” She felt his shoulder tense against her palm, felt his entire body go rigid against hers, and knew she’d hit a nerve.

“It’s none of your business.” He retorted, and Bulma narrowed her eyes in the dark, preparing for a fight.

“Umm, hello? _You’re_ my business, dumbass.” She snapped, knowing that she was walking on thin ice with this tactic. She’d either ruffle his feather’s enough that he’d reveal all in a fit of self-important rage, or he’d shut down completely and stalk out on her.

“Now listen here,” Vegeta rolled, throwing her back a little. “Just because you’re in my bed at night, it doesn’t mean that you know me or have _any_ kind of claim on me.”

“Actually you’re in my bed, if we’re going to get technical.” Bulma snatched up a pillow, hugging it in her arms as though it would act as a barrier between them. The problem with getting Vegeta’s dander up was that his resulting behaviour usually put her in a snit, too.

“You are impossible, woman!” He bared his teeth at her, even though he knew she couldn’t see his face that clearly. “I don’t –” He stopped suddenly, though not the kind of abrupt stop that meant he was fighting for control of his words. It was something else.

“Don’t what?” Bulma snapped, irritated by his sudden silence.

 “Shut _up_ , will you?” Vegeta hissed, and she felt his weight leave the mattress.“Something is happening below, in the training deck.” She heard rustling and flicked on the bedside lamp just in time to see Vegeta tugging on a pair of pants. He cast about for a shirt as she jumped out of bed and wriggled into her nightgown.

“Vegeta!” She called, nabbing her robe as she followed him out the door, only to see that the other warriors were appearing in their doorways as well, in various states of undress and rubbing sleep from their eyes. Nappa and Radditz were at the end of the hall, plainly waiting for Vegeta, and the three of them took off down the hall toward the access ladder to the lower decks. Chichi, in her nightgown and bare feet, was fast on their heels. As though it was the sign they were waiting for, all of the others began to follow. Even Master Roshi had risen to see what was going on and was following along at a clip of a pace. From his open door, Bulma could hear the sounds of Oolong, still snoring away in his bunk. She cast a look toward her parents’ door too, to see that it was still shut as well. “Ki.” She said to herself, and shivered despite the warmth of the robe.

“Bulma!” Puar was at her side, clad in his humanoid form. He was tugging a t-shirt on to go with his pyjama pants, but Bulma caught the hickeys and bite marks dotting his abs and chest. She raised an eyebrow, but it was not the time to tease.

“Come on!” She grabbed his hand and tugged, dragging the poor shape shifter down the hall with her, even as he protested that Radditz had told him to stay put. “Since when is he your boss?” She snorted, starting down the ladder. “Do you know what happened?” She asked, waiting as he followed.

“Radditz said that Kakarott’s, well Goku’s, ki was flaring like mad.” Puar panted as he ran alongside Bulma, down to the next level. “And that Gohan’s down there too, and it feels like he’s panicking.”

.

Rivulets of sweat ran down Goku’s forehead and he felt the strain of every movement, but he was actually enjoying himself. It was frustrating, sure, that Gohan fairly danced around him while he felt mired in a bog, but it was a long time since he’d had a challenge that wasn’t leagues above his head. The boy was not as competitive or mean as his saiyan guardians, so Goku had a chance to actually practice his moves, rather than just being beat into the ground with the assumption that it would make him stronger. Plus, it was nice to do something alone with his son and he thought maybe he was gaining a little ground on the ‘being Gohan’s dad’ front.

“Bear with me, son.” Goku grinned as he began to power up in midair. “I know I told you not to go easy on me, but it’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to train properly. Your uncle and the others are more likely to just use me as their punching bag.”

“Don’t I know it.” Gohan returned wryly and backed off, allowing his father the chance. “Nappa’s training mantra is _If you’re not strong enough to block it, you’d better get fast enough to dodge it._ ” He laughed, and then because he was feeling like he was maybe giving his father the wrong impression, added “But they get more patient as you get stronger. Promise.”

Goku didn’t reply, just focused on raising his power level and keeping it steady. He was severely out of practice, thanks to his years of captivity, and he had to be careful to not just throw it all out at once, lest he lose control. It was times like these that he thought back on long ago days spent with his grandfather, and then later, training with Master Roshi. Their lessons had been the basis for a lifetime of strength and discipline, and he wasn’t about to disappoint them both now. He’d get back into the swing of things and he’d keep at it, and one day he wouldn’t be the runt of the group any more. And then he’d be much nicer to whoever did happen to fall into that spot than they all were to him. He grinned to himself, satisfied by that fantasy, and pulled up a little more power from the store inside of him. In that moment, he felt strong and capable, as though he could do anything and beat any enemy.  It was a good feeling.

Too bad it was so short lived.

Goku felt his ki begin to shudder before his aura actually began to show it a few moments later. His chest burned, and when he tried to feed more energy out in hopes of stabilizing himself, it only increased the pain he was feeling. He gasped as a spike of power lanced through him, momentarily brightening the aura that surrounded him, before it went away, lightning quick. It came back, four times in quick succession, with the beat of his heart, and in between the spikes there were dips so low that he felt as though he had no ki at all, and the bright light that surrounded him shorted out to nothing.

“DAD!” Gohan shrieked, watching his father fall to the floor. He was gasping, clutching his left arm. He had the control to land on his feet, at least, but he dropped to his knees the second he touched down.

“Go....han.” He wheezed, feeling the boy’s hands on his shoulders. He wanted to say more, but it came out as a long, low groan instead. His arm was on fire, shooting pain from his fingertips to his shoulder, and his heart was beating fast. “Can’t....breathe.” He gasped, trying to draw in a deep breath, though it felt like Nappa was standing on his chest in full weighted training gear.

“Hang on, dad!” Gohan cried, racing quickly to the console, where he set the gravity back down to zero before zipping back to his father. “I’ll...I’ll get help.” He said, but didn’t move. He’d grasped Goku’s hand and was loathe to let go, as the declining gravity did not seem to help the situation at all. What if he left, he wondered, and his father died down here, alone?

The console bleeped to indicate that the chamber had reached a gravity equal with that of the surrounding ship, and Gohan winced at the heavy clunk that indicated that the door’s lock was now disabled. He didn’t want to go, and didn’t know what to do if he stayed. Luckily, he was saved from making the decision a few moments later, when the door banged open and Vegeta strode in, followed by about ninety percent of Red Station’s population, all talking and crowding around.

“Goku!” Chichi shrieked, falling to her husband’s side. “What’s happened?”

“Quick, we have to get him to the infirmary!” Bulma was shouting as she pushed her way through, followed by Sixteen, who’d also heard the commotion and come out from Gero’s lab, where he’d been spending most of his time lately. Swifter than untrained eyes could follow, Nappa and Radditz had hoisted their comrade between them, and Vegeta was barking orders for everyone to get out of the way as Sixteen and Bulma led the charge to the medical bay, running so that they could try and prepare before the patient arrived. 

“I believe he is having a heart attack.” Sixteen said calmly, grasping for various bottles as Bulma ruthlessly cleared a path for the bulky saiyans, shoving chairs and wheeled carts out of the way. Vegeta and Gohan were right on their heels, smart enough to stay back away from the heart of the commotion.

“Right here!” Bulma instructed, patting the exam table, and reached for Goku’s hand as soon as they’d laid him out and released him. “It’s going to be okay, big guy!”

 “This will thin the blood out,” the android said, quickly prepping a needle and setting it down, “and this one will ease the pain and stop the spasms in his heart.”

“Ngaaah!” Goku shrieked, his eyes widening as he saw the two needles, laid out side by side. He squirmed, trying to lift himself up and off of the table while Bulma tried vainly to hold him there.

“Goku, calm down!” She commanded, though her plea fell on deaf ears. “HELP!” She yelped, and Radditz jumped in, forcefully shoving his brother’s shoulders back down against the padded table.

“Nappa, get his feet!” Radditz barked, even as the bald saiyan was trying to negotiate the whir of churning legs.

“No! NO!” Goku screamed, desperately writhing as Sixteen picked up the first needle and advanced upon him.

“What the fuck?” Radditz growled, nearly losing his grip as Goku’s thrashing head knocked into his wrist.

“He’s afraid of needles.” Bulma clarified, sheepishly.

“Kakarott, you idiot!” Radditz yelled down into his brother’s tearful face. “If they don’t stick you, you’ll die!”

“Your brother is right!” Chichi stomped into the room, putting on her most frightening of maternal faces. “Enough of this nonsense!” She grabbed his free hand and squeezed it tight.

“But it’s going to hurt!” He whined, and she growled in the back of her throat, impressing Radditz and Nappa with how saiyan she sounded.

“You know what hurts, Goku? Pushing a kid out with no drugs, because _someone_ fainted at the sight of the epidural and the doctors had to abandon a poor, helpless woman to make sure her stupid husband was okay!” She leaned in close, her nose an inch from his. “So you’re going to lay still and have the damn needles, Goku, because I swear it, if you die on me now because you’re too afraid to have two little pinpricks, I will never, ever forgive you!”

“Okay, okay!” Goku cried, “Do it, I’ll be good!” He turned pleading eyes on Sixteen. “Just be quick!”

“It is already done.” Sixteen held up two empty needles in one hand, and pointed to two taped-over cotton balls on Goku’s arm. The saiyan blinked, wide eyed.

“He did it while your mate was tearing you a new one.” Radditz chuckled, releasing his hold on his brother. Goku slumped against the table, suddenly looking very weary and pale.

“Judging by that burst of energy, the worst is over.” Sixteen continued. “You must rest here for a moment so that the drugs can work their way through your bloodstream, and then we will help you into the regeneration tank. “You will be alright, for now.”

“For now?” Chichi croaked through a dry throat, and Sixteen nodded.

“I will have to run some tests, as I doubt this attack was caused solely by such conventional factors as blocked arteries.” He carefully replaced the bottles in his cabinet and dismantled the needles, setting them inside the small autoclave at the back of the infirmary for disinfection. “Any information on saiyan physiology would be helpful.” Sixteen added, as he turned back toward the group.

“The wasting...” Gohan whispered, and four pairs of dark eyes all looked toward each other.

“This is...problematic.” Vegeta said, and everyone in the room turned to him. “Having actually lived on Vegetasei amongst our people for the longest, Nappa has the most knowledge in this area of any of us.”

“Broken bones, snapped tendons, no problem.” Radditz interrupted, shrugging apologetically down at his sister-in-law’s stricken face. “But heart attacks? A bit beyond us.”

“Nappa has dealt with the wasting before, though I was a child and barely came out of it alive.” Vegeta glared over at his one-time mentor. “And I am told that it affects adults in a different way.”

“Never seen wasting in an adult before. Not first hand.” Nappa put in, surprisingly quiet as he observed Goku’s laboured breathing. “Thought it wasn’t supposed to be this bad.” His thick eyebrows drew together and he turned toward Vegeta. “Prince...the disks in Tarble’s possession...maybe they’ve got something?”

“Yes, Nappa, I had thought of that too.” Vegeta sighed and straightened his back purposefully. “Android, do whatever needs to be done to keep him stable. You three,” he gestured to his saiyan subordinates, “assist in whatever ways are necessary. Kakarott, if I hear you are resisting treatment again, I will beat you to death myself.”

                “I’ll help.” Chichi glared at her husband, though her sentiment was softened by a gentle squeeze of his hand.

                “Bulma, come with me.” Vegeta said, striding toward the doorway and glaring at all the milling occupants of the hallway who were too worried to go to bed, and yet not willing to enter the infirmary and possibly get in the way.

                “Where are we going?” Bulma asked, looking anxiously back at her friend. She wanted to stay too.

                “The bridge.” Vegeta reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, tugging gently forward. “I need you to set us a new course.”

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Again, thanks for the patience, all. Hope you enjoyed this update, and please do consider telling me what you thought.


	36. Chapter 36

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  Thanks for all the reviews everyone! The support and kind comments have been awesome, and so very appreciated! And sorry to everyone who has me on FFN’s author alert – the formatting issues in the first 26 chapters have all been fixed, and again I’m sorry if your email inbox has been spammed by my edits.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Gohan yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth since his mother was fast asleep, and he knew that Radditz wouldn’t care in the least. The three of them had not left the infirmary since Goku had been brought in a little over three hours ago. He was in the regeneration tank now, and there was really no reason for any of them to be there, but they were all reluctant to leave just the same.

                “Hey, Brat,” Radditz rumbled from his seat on the counter, “you can go to bed if you want.” He shifted and scratched his armpit.

                “Nah, I’m okay.” Gohan replied, though he did cast an envious look toward his mother, who was stretched out in relative comfort on the padded examination table. Puar had brought them each a blanket and pillow to keep them cozy while they did their sentinel duty. He’d offered to stay too, but Radditz had sent him to away two hours prior, telling the shapeshifter in low tones to go and keep the bed warm, even though they both knew he wouldn’t be coming back to it any time soon. “Maybe if Mom went to bed I’d feel a bit better, but I don’t want to leave her here all alone.”

                “Pah, I’m here!” Radditz scoffed, but he was grinning nonetheless. They both knew that while Chichi had grown to tolerate and even accept the saiyan presence in her life, the idea of waking up alone to find only Radditz watching over her would not be an appealing one to her.

                “No offense or anything.” Gohan shrugged beneath the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his uncle laughed.

                “None taken, kid. Hey, why don’t you toss me one of those pillows? This counter’s damn solid!” Radditz complained, shifting to one side to rub his aching butt.

                “Radditz,” Gohan paused, “can I ask you a question?” He grabbed the extra bedding and hauled himself up from the floor before plodding over to the counter and hopping up to sit beside his uncle. There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of shifting as they both manoeuvred pillows beneath rumps and blankets around shoulders.

                “Is it about hormones?” Radditz asked, “Because if it is, you might want to make sure your mom is actually asleep. She doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate what I’d have to say.”

                “It’s about tonight.” Gohan raised an eyebrow at his uncle. Thanks to two years of cohabitation with Radditz and Nappa, Gohan doubted that he would ever have questions about anything that he didn’t already know the answer to. “You felt the power surge too, right?”

                “Yeah, of course.” Radditz nodded as he adjusted his blanket a little. “Everyone did. It’s why we all came running.” He glared at his nephew, one eye squinting ever so slightly. “You two interrupted what was _going_ to be a very good night.”

                “ _Anyway_ ,” Gohan continued, trying to pretend that Radditz’s last sentence had remained unsaid, “did you notice anything odd?” He watched the adult saiyan carefully, his small eyebrows furrowed together as Radditz thought about it, an almost identical look of concentration on his face.

                “The surge,” Radditz said at last, “it was enormous.” He frowned, trying to reconcile this new information with what he knew of his brother’s meagre power level. “Fucking astronomical, for Kakarott.”

                “That’s what I thought. And when he was having the attack,” Gohan paused, picking his words carefully, “he flickered.”

                “Flickered?” Radditz repeated, eyebrows high in surprise as he turned to face the boy.

                “Flickered.” Gohan confirmed. “It was almost like the first time that Vegeta nearly transformed, right before he told us to come to Red. Not as intense,” he added hastily, knowing that what he was saying was practically sacrilege. “Not as powerful. But I...I’m almost sure I saw it.”

                “Impossible.” Radditz blurted, but he didn’t sound at all sure of himself. “You mean to say that you think Kakarott almost went Super Saiyan?”

                “No, not even close.” Gohan sighed and kicked his booted feet against the cupboards. “He’s not strong enough. But I think...” He trailed off, unsure how he felt about what he was saying. On one hand, he should be pleased to have a father with such potential. On the other, he felt almost betrayed on behalf of Vegeta, as though it was not his father’s place to usurp the prince.

                “This is major. We’ve got to tell Vegeta.” Radditz scrubbed a hand against his face and sighed deeply, as though contemplating how that conversation might go and the multitude of ways in which the volatile monarch might react. He dreaded about ninety-two percent of them. “Even if it turns out to be a bucket of piss, we’ve got to tell him.”

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                Bulma sprawled backwards in her chair and rubbed the aching muscles of her neck, even though she knew it wouldn’t really do anything to curb the pain unless she followed the massage up with a strict cease order on what was causing it – not likely. She groaned and sat up straight once more, the springs in the backrest creaking as she did so, and surveyed the mess before her. For a man so enamoured of machines, Dr. Gero had been a terrible hypocrite when it came to computers. The files in his private account comprised only a small percentage of what was to be found in hard copy – scribbled bits of paper tacked haphazardly together with tape, paperclips, and in the case of a few fair-sized packets, a length of twine. The paper records were meticulous in their detail and kept as complete sets, but the filing system was nonexistent. The clipped and stapled sheafs were everywhere; hiding in drawers, sitting piled amongst parts under tarps, stuffed into boxes, and stacked beneath tables. It wasn’t exactly a mess, but it was close, and it was damn near driving Bulma insane. She was tempted to just scrap the whole lot of it – incinerate it and toss it out with the ship’s trash – but the fact of the late doctor’s genius kept her from doing so. As much as she hated to admit it, Gero’s notes were valuable and would probably come in handy one day.

                Besides that, she was desperate to find more information on the twin androids that she’d suddenly gained custody of. The files in Gero’s computer were sadly lacking, and as the two bodies inched closer and closer to completion, Bulma was becoming desperate. Sixteen seemed certain that Gero had performed some sort of programming wizardry and all that was necessary to the twins’ survival was not disrupting their power supply, but Bulma doubted that the process would just complete itself and the twins would fall out of the tanks as two sopping wet, fully functional adults. Whatever gaps might exist would be in her hands.

                Bulma checked her watch and glanced backwards over her shoulder toward the rear of the lab, where the objects of her concern lay. Sixteen had gone back there over an hour ago, simply to sit and watch, as was his habit since the old man’s death. Bulma wondered how he was doing.  He seemed to be coping quite well, but it was always so hard to tell with the big android. He could be joyful or in the deepest pits of anger, and his expression hardly seemed to change. Bulma hoped that Seventeen and Eighteen would show some advances in that area; she loved Sixteen and thought of him as a dear friend, but his stoic face and monotone voice could be surprisingly trying and she didn’t know if she could deal with it from three directions at once.

                “Okay babe,” she said to herself, “concentrate.” She rubbed temples for a few seconds, squinting down at the next stack of papers as though she might develop selective x-ray vision and be suddenly able to skim through the whole pile at once. For every amazing, brilliant idea Gero wrote down, it seemed he expounded on at least two crackpot ones, making a tedious job of what could have been fascinating research. She’d been at it for hours already, and the knowledge that she had hardly made a dent in it all was crushing. Maybe just a little break...

                Five minutes later, Bulma was whirling away from the desk, cursing Gero’s uncomfortable chair as she stood and tried in vain to stretch out all the kinks in her spine. She spun the seat back toward the desk, wincing at the creak in the mechanism, and tried to decide whether to bother oiling it or to just trash it. The chair in her own lab was a thousand times more comfortable anyway, and she’d be moving it in along with all of her projects in as soon as she finished organizing Gero’s leavings. At the same time, the past three years had made her cautious of wastefulness. Bulma shook her head briefly, telling herself that there were more important things to think about than the fate of a crummy chair, and started picking her way to the back of the lab.

                “Hey Sixteen.” She said, alerting the big android to her presence as she came up behind him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, still almost as tall as she was standing, patiently watching the two tanks. “How’s it going?”

                “Things are progressing as expected.” Sixteen replied, nodding toward the tanks as Bulma lowered herself to the ground beside him. Maybe she’d wheel the awful old chair back here for him and move hers in right away. “They are nearly complete.”

                “How can you tell?” Bulma asked, eyeing the tanks suspiciously. It still made her a little bit uncomfortable to look at the twins, both stark naked and in varying states of completion. The first time she’d seen them, they’d both had little in the way of lower extremities, but now they both had proper legs and feet, and were working on toes. “Are they done once they’re complete on the outside? What about their brains and innards? Brains take a really long time to develop in humans.” She paused, “But I guess it isn’t really the same thing, is it?”

                “I suppose not.” Sixteen shrugged his massive shoulders, “Though I must confess, my knowledge of human reproduction and development is somewhat lacking. Father did not see fit to teach me all of the details. ”

                “Oh,” Bulma said, a little surprised, “well let me know if you ever have any...ah...questions.” It was always a bit shocking to find out about the weird gaps in Sixteen’s knowledge; he seemed to know so much about the ship and about the universe around them, and given that Gero had designed Sixteen with the role of medical personnel in mind, it was odd that the big android hadn’t been schooled properly in human development. Then again, she figured Gero probably hadn’t been planning on finding himself a wife and making babies any time soon. Bulma squinted up at Eighteen in her tank, the only female Gero had ever built, and suddenly  it occurred to her than his plans might have been less than noble. “What...what do you think will happen when they come out?” Bulma asked, suddenly unsure as to whether she should be allowing Sixteen to sit here with Eighteen’s nude body in full view. “What will they be to you?”

                “My siblings.” Sixteen answered, and Bulma could hear a surprising note of happiness in his voice, remarkable not for the sentiment but for the fact that it was audible in the first place. She felt a little better. “I will be their elder brother, and I will teach them all that I know about living, and I will remember to them our father.”

                “And what if they turn out like he did?”

                “They will not.” The big android said, firmly. Then, a little less surely “And if they do, you will fix them. I will help you.”

                “Oh.” Bulma replied, eyeing the near-complete toes of the twins and resolving to get back to her search for Gero’s documents. “I guess I’d better get back to work then, if I’m going to be prepared.” She got up, grimacing as her back cracked. “What’s the deal with all the paper?” Bulma complained as she adjusted her shirt, which  had pulled up a little as she stretched. “Hardly half of Gero’s files are on the computer.”

                “My father was a paranoid man. He feared computer hackers, but trusted the relative security of any hard copy kept here.”

                “Hmm, sounds like the Gero I knew, all right.” Bulma shook her head, thinking about how easy it had been for her to get past his locks and sneak into his lab. Then again, the old coot had caught her right in the middle of her covert operations, so she supposed his way of thinking wasn’t all wrong. She shrugged her shoulders, as much in gesture as an attempt to loosen up her tense muscles, and turned away from the regeneration tanks. She shuffled back toward Gero’s old desk, dragging her slippered feet as she went; the prospect of going through every detail of the old man’s research was suddenly a daunting task, given her shortened time frame, and she was no longer certain if she had the energy to continue. “Maybe I’ll get dad down here to help,” she muttered, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she pulled out the wheelie chair from hell and plopped down, “though I have no clue why he isn’t beating down the door himself. Well...” she added, glancing around at the mess as she reached for another stack, “maybe I do.”

                Bulma spent a few moments shuffling through the pile, glancing at the headers – one was just a napkin with “Arms” scribbled on it, and upon closer inspection, the following sheets comprised a packet of various sketches of mechanical arms, including Sixteen’s wire and cable mock-up of a human limb. She shrugged and set it into the pile of non-critical android information to be reviewed later. Next in the stack were some notes on Gero’s early ideas for Red Station, which she put in another ‘sort through later’ type pile, just in case any of it might be viable for future designs. “Come on, where’s the ‘ _So You’re Going to Have an Android?’_ pamphlets? My school guidance counsellor did not prepare me for this.” She shook her head and rifled through the documents in her hands, looking for something interesting. Well, the truth was actually that _most_ of what she now had in her hands was interesting – the problem was finding something _relevant_.

                “Oh ho, what’s this?” She plucked a fad wad of papers from the middle of the pile and set the rest aside before removing the clip that bound the packet together. The front page which had attracted her attention was a sketch of what looked to be another android, though unlike the others it did not appear to have strictly human features. Another odd detail caught Bulma’s attention as she squinted to make out the labels in Gero’s cramped handwriting; this one was not numbered, but was labelled instead with a name. “Cell.” Bulma said aloud as she flipped to the next page and began to read about the planned android’s theoretical specs. “Perfect being, blah, blah, blah.” She rolled her eyes at Gero’s ego before turning to the next page.

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                Sixteen sighed happily as he looked up at his soon-to-be brother and sister, feeling the odd, warmish sensation that Chichi called ‘contentment’ and knew it to be true. He was sad for the death of his father, and yet at the same time, he could not recall ever having felt the same sense of excitement, of budding happiness, as he did now. The arrival of Bulma and the others on Red Station had been interesting and wonderful, but those sensations had been tempered by the reluctance and scepticism of his father, with his paranoia and pessimistic ways. This time, Sixteen felt free to hope for the best, and to expect that things would work out. He knew Bulma was wary of the twins, probably because of the spectacular show of unbalanced rage that Gero had left as his final legacy, but Sixteen was confident that the twins would not suffer the same ill-effects as their father had. They were of a completely different construction, for one thing, and there was none of the clumsy haste that had characterized Gero’s transformation lurking within their design.

                Sixteen smiled, thinking of Bulma. She had been a very good friend to him the past three years, and even moreso since the passing of the doctor. He had no doubt that she would be able to take over as a parental figure to the twins. He actually felt that she was likely to do a much better job than his father had done with him, and he was pleased to be able to offer them that.  Now if only Bulma could be so confident in herself, he thought, smiling as he pictured her hunched over Gero’s desk, tumble of blue curls obscuring her face from his towering height.

                “I am so excited.” Sixteen said to the twins, though no one who did not know him well could have guessed from his tone of voice. “Soon you will be complete, and we will finally meet. And you will meet Bulma and Chichi, my two very best friends. And you will meet the others too; Krillin and Puar, and the Briefs and the saiyans...and Piccolo and Tien and Master Roshi and Oolong...do not listen to Master Roshi and Oolong. If you have questions about sex, ask Bulma or Chichi. Krillin is also good at answering questions. Vegeta yells and is sullen but probably won’t actually hit you outside of the training rooms.” Sixteen paused and rethought the wisdom of his last statement, even though he wasn’t sure how much the twins could actually hear and understand. “Refrain from testing this theory.” He added, before lapsing once more into silence. He’d spoken more in the last five minutes than he had all day, and the urge to voice his thoughts had suddenly run dry. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, and watched the subtle swirl of the bluish fluid as it slowly worked its way around and through the tank. He followed the occasional bubble with his eyes, smiling as the tiny pockets of air worked themselves free and shot upward to freedom.

                Eyes half shut with near meditative concentration, Sixteen almost missed the quick twitch of Seventeen’s fingers, and had it not been for the small swath of bubbles released in its wake, the movement might have gone completely unnoticed. As it was, the big android wasn’t quite sure that he’d actually seen what he thought he had, until he moved closer and, peering in, saw his younger brother’s index finger move just the barest hint, uncontrolled like a  second spasm of the tendons. “B...Bulma!” he cried out in shock, backing up to stare at the pale face in the tank, expecting the eyelids to crack open at any moment. “Bulma!” He called again, walking backward a few steps, reluctant to peel his eyes from the tank lest his brother stop moving, before he turned and stumbled through the labyrinth of half-finished projects and spare parts that was his late father’s lab. He called out to her again once she was in view, though he thought she must not have heard him the first two times, for she was startled enough by his appearance that she dropped whatever she’d been reading, papers flying every which way and scattering across the floor.

                “Sixteen!” She squawked, dropping immediately to the floor and scrabbling for the strewn records. “What is it?” Bulma asked, sounding breathless, and had he been less excited about his own discovery, he might have noticed the shaking tips of her fingers, and the unusually wan pallor of her already pale skin. “No! Don’t help!” She shouted as he bent to help her, and when he jerked back in surprise, she laughed uncomfortably. “I mean...um, this isn’t important, just leave it! Hahaha....I uh, I can get it later.” She dumped what was in her hand on the desk and brushed the dirt from her knees. “So what is it?”

                “You must come and see!” Sixteen said, and though his voice was as monotone as ever, Bulma could see that he was shaken by something. “It’s Seventeen! His fingers moved! Come and see!” He turned and started back toward the tanks, papers forgotten, and Bulma trailed behind, casting nervous glances back at the mess on the floor.

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                Guldo poked his head into the hallway, scowling left then right, before pulling back into the small meeting room and shutting the door. He stood with his back straight, legs firmly planted on the ground, feet shoulder width apart, and hooked his hands together behind his back so that his chest would puff out as proudly as possible, waiting for his comrades to notice him.

                They did not.

                “Hey Recoome,” Jeice elbowed the much larger warrior in the ribs and grinned, teeth blindingly white against the scarlet of his skin, “who was that pretty little nut I saw you disappear with last night, hmm?”

                “Dunno.” Recoome shrugged his massive shoulders, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration as he bent over the table, attention focused purely on trying to spin the coin he had, as Burter had shown him. “Didn’t think to ask.” He continued, frowning as the coin spun once, lopsidedly, before rolling three inches and falling on its side.

                “Ugh, not like that, idiot.” Burter snorted and reached for the coin. He held it upright on the table with one finger, then flicked it with his other hand and watched with smug satisfaction as it whizzed around the tabletop.

                “I still don’t get it.” Recoome slammed his hand down on the coin, stopping its motion in mid-spin, and balancing it carefully beneath his meaty finger once more.

                “Try, try, and try again!” Jeice chanted in a sing-song voice, rolling his eyes at the largest member of the team.

                “Ah-HEM!” Guldo coughed loudly from his place by the door, and only Jeice turned to look.

                “What’s up, little mate?” He drawled, kicking back his chair and propping his feet on the table.

                “I’ve called you all here today,” Guldo began, striding toward the table in his best impression of a respectable war general. Whatever small effect he’d managed to cultivate was ruined when he stopped at the one empty chair, whose seat reached his shoulder. He scrambled up, grunting, and sat, his bulging eyes barely visible above the tabletop. He hauled himself to his feet and stood, a little unsteadily, on the plushy seat cushion. “As you all know, our _beloved_ Captain Ginyu has died, leaving the leadership of our esteemed group in the balance.”

                “I nominate me.” Jeice put in.

                “What?” Guldo sputtered, “No!”

                “Yeah, I’m a much better choice.” Burter said, not even bothering to look up at the others as he picked up Recoome’s coin, patiently standing it beneath his finger once more “You hold it with one hand, and flick it with the other.” He explained again, miming the action with his fingers.

                “That’s what she said.” Jeice snickered.

                “In addition to my excellent leadership skills,” Guldo continued loudly, as though volume would be proportionate to respect garnered, “I have the same initial as Ginyu; we wouldn’t even have to change our uniforms!”

                “We don’t _have_ a G on our uniforms, frog face.” Burter pointed out, taking Recoome’s hands and positioning them for optimum coin-spinning luck.

                “Hey, who are you calling frog face?” Guldo spat, “And we do so have a G on our _curling team_ uniforms!”

                “You’re not even really on the team.” Burter said.

                “Yeah, you can’t sweep for shit.” Jeice added. “Waterboy.”

                “Water is important!” Guldo shrieked. “Ginyu said so!”

                “Ginyu’s dead.” Jeice pointed out. “Shit, guys. We’re going to have to find another skip if we’re going to win this year’s bonspiel.”

                “The team captain should be skip.” Burter nodded. “So that means Guldo is out for sure. Too bad Zarbon turned traitor; he was an excellent caller, and a decent fighter too.”

                “Enough about curling!” Guldo slammed a fist on the table. He was always getting the shaft when it came to the Ginyu Force’s participation in army intramurals, but that would change once he was captain. He’d never be relegated to water boy again. “I propose a vote! Right here, right now. We pick a new team leader! I vote Guldo!”

                “I still vote for myself.” Jeice said.

                “Me too. A vote for Burter is a vote for better.” Burter clapped his hands together as Recoome balanced the coin and flicked it with his thumb and middle finger, finally sending it spinning like a top. “Hey, good job man!” He patted the big lug on the back.

                “Burter.” Recoome said, grinning from ear to ear as he watched the little disk whiz around. “I vote Burter!”

                “Well damn, I guess you win, ” Jeice said, shrugging and leaning back in his chair. “Well played, mate. What’ll we call ourselves? The Burter Squad? Burter’s Bruisers?”

                “Shit! This is shit!” Guldo slammed his fists against the table.

                “Team Burter?” Recoome wondered.

                “The Burter Brigade?” Jeice asked. “I kind of like that one.”

                “Hey, me too.” Burter was nodding along. “What do you think, big fellow?”

                “I like it.” Recoome said. “Seriously though,” he said, glancing at Guldo, who was stewing silently in his chair, “we need to find another member before curling season starts.”

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                “You are shitting me.” Vegeta said, quietly glaring across the room, to the regeneration where Goku slept, completely unaware of the turmoil he was causing.

                “Blasphemy! To even suggest such a thing!” Nappa spluttered, his cheeks flaming red with anger. “Complete and utter blasphemy!”

                “It’s not!” Gohan balled his fists up, trying to stand firm in the face of adult disbelief. Nappa was fuming mad, but Radditz had been open and Vegeta was remaining calm, so Gohan took it as a good sign. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

                “Tell me again.” Vegeta commanded, and Nappa turned his red, sputtering face toward the prince in shock.

                “You actually mean to listen to this, Vegeta?” He squawked.

                “Tell me again.” Vegeta repeated, lifting a hand to silence Nappa, even as his eyes remained fixed on Gohan. “Leave nothing out.”

                “I told you, he...he flickered. Not as strong or as obviously as you did, even the first time it happened. Not nearly that.” Gohan stuttered, feeling the strain of the prince’s glare, desperately wanting to look away, to bow or perhaps bare his throat like a submitting animal. The weight of Vegeta’s hostility was something he did not want to bear, but he could not disservice his prince by lying. “I saw it...your highness.” He added, weakly grasping for something, anything, to lessen Vegeta’s ire.

                “So are you telling us that he went Super Saiyan?” Vegeta asked, and behind him Gohan could feel Radditz shrink a little at that deadly tone. Was his uncle regretting their decision so soon?

                “N...no.” Gohan forced himself to meet Vegeta’s gaze. “No, he didn’t. But neither did you, that first time.”

                “He is a weakling! A pathetic third class power level,” Nappa insisted, “and afflicted with the wasting, no less! There is just no way!”

                “I saw what I saw. You all felt the jump of his power before he crashed.” Gohan did his best to keep the waver from his voice, feeling tears well up in his eyes and desperately willing them not to fall, at least until he could be alone. He felt the weight of Radditz’s hand coming down gently on his shoulder, and snuffled them all back.

                “What a force to be reckoned with,” Radditz said bravely, “for what fool would go against a team of Super Saiyans? If that bratling of a brother of mine can do it, I don’t see why I can’t. Gohan too; it’s in the blood.” He stuck his tongue out at Nappa, who glared so hard that Gohan feared his eyes might fall right out of his head.

                “What a concept.” Vegeta said dryly, rolling his eyes. He looked critically at Gohan, head cocked and arms crossed as he leaned back to rest against the examination table. He had to admit that the kid had always seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. Flights of ethical fancy aside, Gohan had never been one to make up stories; precedent said to believe him. Still though, Vegeta frowned as he switched his gaze to the figure in the tank, the idea that one so weak and sick as Kakarott could possibly have come so close to the Super saiyan transformation was both rankling and preposterous. He shook his head and opened his mouth, about to speak, when a shuffle in the hallway caught his attention. “Sixteen approaches; I hear footfalls and feel no ki. Not a word of this conversation to anyone.” He snapped, just as the door whooshed open and the big android entered, looking faintly amused to see them all gathered there.

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                Zarbon looked up in surprise, shocked to see Burter wandering into his cell. “Have you heard the news?” The blue-skinned man asked, without preamble. “Ginyu’s dead. Vegeta killed ‘im.”

                “Yeah.” Zarbon eyed his visitor warily, wondering what business Burter could possibly have with him.

                “Figured you might.” Burter grabbed a chair, flipping it around and sitting down so that he straddled the backrest, folding his elbows on top and leaning forward on it. “Frieza always did tell you everything. Anyway, I’m the boss now. Of the Ginyu Squad, I mean. Well, the Burter Brigade, actually.”

                “Huh.” Zarbon said, because he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

                “A few months ago, I might have thought that would impress you.” Burter said, and Zarbon swallowed uncomfortably, feeling his insides curl at the tone of outright longing in the other man’s voice. “I suppose it doesn’t mean much, now.”

                “Burter, I...” Zarbon trailed off as their eyes locked. “I didn’t know.”

                “Eh, I never said it.” Burter shrugged. “You were always too pretty for me, anyway.”

                “Not so pretty right now, I imagine.” Zarbon shrugged awkwardly in his chains, cocking his head toward the pile of grimy hair, still on the floor. Burter scooted his chair forward, reaching out hesitantly to touch one long finger to the other man’s bruised cheek. Zarbon flinched, his aching muscles all tight as his visitor came close, knowing that there was nothing he could do to protect himself from whatever Burter might have in mind.

                “Zat an invitation?” Burter laughed sardonically. “The shape you’re in, you’re more of a masochist than I thought.” He caught a strand of Zarbon’s massacred hair between his fingers, feeling it’s smoothness against his rough hide. “Naw, pretty boy, I didn’t come to take advantage.” He dropped the hair and rolled his chair back a few inches. Still close, but no longer invasive.

                “So what do you want?” Zarbon sighed tiredly, slumping against his restraints as some of the tension left his body. He did not have the patience to play games, nor did he think much more could be done to him that would be worse than what Frieza had for so many years.

                “Why did you do it?” Burter asked, blunt and straightforward as he’d always been. “Why did you turn traitor?”

                “I’m not sure I really _turned_ anything.” Zarbon said. What harm could telling the truth do at this point? “It was a natural progression. My people joined the empire more or less willingly, when I was young and power hungry. I admired him and he knew it. He used it against me, pulled me in so deep that I couldn’t see what I was becoming until it was too late. Until I woke up one morning with his stink all over me, covered in bruises, with blood in my hair, still feeling the effects of his drugs...” Zarbon broke off, and Burter pretended not to notice the tremors running through the captive’s body, despite the audible clanking of the restraints. “And I realized I was trapped in this web of sickness and pain and hatred; no escape, nowhere to go. My people were dead or enslaved, my planet populated by aliens, and nothing for me in life but to be the master’s pet.”

                “Tell me, is this so much better?” Burter asked, gesturing with one hand around the room and to Zarbon himself, chained and filthy, crusted with blood and bruises.

                “I knew the life I was leading would kill me, one way or the other. My death will have meaning, at least.”

                “You are...” Burter paused, sighing, “a stupid man. Very stupid. But brave. I’m sorry to see things end like this.”

                “Feh,” Zarbon grinned, despite the pain it caused in his cracked lips. “You think you’re sorry?”

                “I’ve got to go now. I might be back.” Burter stood and looked down at the fallen warrior, once such a proud figure of Frieza’s army. He felt a sudden pang of desire go through him, not necessarily physical, but moreso for what could have been. He’d never had the courage to really talk to Zarbon before, too shy of the other man’s beauty and of Frieza’s jealousy. And now his chance was gone, and it rankled.  Abruptly, Burter turned and stalked from the room, leaving a silent Zarbon behind, not really sure what to think about the encounter.

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                Sixteen ignored the heavy silence in the medical bay as he went about his job, checking Goku’s vitals and adjusting the nutrient flow in the tank. He appeared to have interrupted some kind of Saiyan meeting, judging from the way everyone’s mouths had snapped right shut the second he entered the room. Four pairs of black eyes followed his every move, but the scrutiny didn’t really phase him; he’d dealt with enough saiyan medical emergencies to know that they were fiercely protective of each other when it came to outsiders, despite the fact that the emergencies were usually caused by infighting anyway. Sixteen had other things on his mind, such as the distraction he’d sensed from Bulma in the lab, and he didn’t need more mysteries to ponder. She’d been duly excited by Seventeen’s brief bout of movement, but beneath her fascination with his brother, she’d seemed nervous somehow; cagey. Not at all like her usual self.

                “Are you done yet?” Vegeta’s voice cut through Sixteen’s muddled thoughts like a knife, interrupting his musings on Bulma’s odd behaviour.

                “Nearly.” Sixteen answered, not at all bothered by Vegeta’s impatience ; he was more than used to it by now, though he did wonder sometimes how such a sweet and giving woman as his dear friend Bulma had ended up with such a surly character. “Is something amiss?” He asked, wondering what exactly had all of the saiyans peaceably in the same room. Such a gathering usually only happened in the middle of the day like this when sparring was involved.

                “No.” Vegeta snapped. “Now hurry up.”

                “Very well.” Sixteen shrugged and turned back to his task. He made a few quick notes on Goku’s chart and left shortly after, knowing that whatever secret Vegeta was keeping would come out soon enough.

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                Bulma tiptoed through the dark, a thick sheaf of papers clutched to her bosom as she made her way toward the ship’s waste disposal units. It was the middle of the night and she’d snuck out of bed specifically for this purpose, fearful of running into anyone and having to explain any small bit of what was in her arms. The blueprints for the android called Cell; Gero’s perfect creation. Had these plans come to fruition, this monster might very well have been the death of all of them.

                The mystery of the third regeneration tank had been sitting at the back of Bulma’s head for months, but she wondered if she’d rather not have found out the answer. If she hadn’t mucked it up with Tien’s ‘unsuitable’ DNA, it would be sitting right beside the twins’ tanks, slowly, slowly growing the monster that would consume them both. Meant to marry Gero’s organic android technology with DNA from some of the most powerful fighters in the universe, that regeneration tank had been much more important than Bulma could ever have realized, and as awful as it was to have found Tien in such dreadful condition, she was incredibly thankful for the inadvertent ruination of Gero’s plans. According to his notes, he’d already harvested samples from Goku and some of the Red Ribbon Army generals back on Earth, as well as several names she did not recognize, obviously gathered once out in space. In the time since his plans had been foiled, Gero had also gathered hair and blood samples from Vegeta, Gohan, Radditz, and Nappa, and had made several tries at getting blood from Piccolo.

                Bothersome, but somewhat flattering, she’d also discovered that Gero had taken hair and skin samples from both herself and her father, intending to try and make his creature as intelligent as possible. Tendrils like ice curled around her and ran up her spine as she tried to imagine when and how he’d obtained those samples.

                “Snake.” Bulma hissed to herself, shivering despite the heat of the incinerator. She thought of poor Sixteen, waiting so patiently for his brother and sister, clinging to the hope that they would be a family together in the wake of his father’s death. She wondered what he would do if he knew that, while the twins had been _designed_ to be excellent in their own right, Seventeen and Eighteen had been _created_ almost purely as fodder for this Cell creature to reach his final state. The thought of it was absolutely chilling. And that was why she was burning the evidence. All of it. She’d used her ghost drive to root out and erase everything in Gero’s computer system, and now came the physical. Bulma hefted the heavy door open, cursing as it creaked loudly on its hinges, and tossed the papers into the flames. She watched, sweating, as they caught and blackened, turning to ash before her eyes.

                Bulma had seriously thought about letting her father in on this secret, but knew better than anyone that Doctor Briefs was not very well grounded in reality. He had all the capability of Dr. Gero to whiz off into flights of fancy and intellectual genius, and was only tethered by slightly better ethics. Even though she and her father were more into mechanics than bioengineering, she didn’t want to set ideas into his brain. She also knew that her own father was a dedicated record keeper; anything she let slip would likely be written down somewhere, and Bulma didn’t want to take the chance that Sixteen or his soon-to-be-siblings would ever, ever find out what Dr. Gero had been up to.

                When there was nothing left but hungry flames, Bulma shut the door to the garbage incinerator and wiped the sweat from her forehead, glad the task was over and done with. She slumped back against the nearest wall, to unsettled by the day’s events to realize how achingly tired she was. Her mind was positively wired, whirring with the knowledge of what might have been, save a few key events in her life. She wasn’t normally one to dwell on things, but moments like this, so deeply unsettling, tended to bring up all the uncertainties in her life; the bad decisions, the narrow escapes from danger, the things she’d said and wished she hadn’t, and the things she hadn’t said and wished she had. Sitting there, staring at the incinerator all alone in the middle of the night was something she’d done after Yamcha’s death and the burning of his worldly possessions for lack of a body to cremate. Sitting there, she realized that in the buddings of her relationship with Vengeance, she’d slowly stopped coming here altogether. She’d outright avoided it, in fact.

                Like everything to do with Yamcha, Vegeta’s presence had suddenly erased her need to mourn without her even realizing it.

                Bulma swallowed, tears building up in her eyes and guilt skipping down her gullet as she realized just how callously she seemed to have abandoned his memory. Even Vegeta’s destruction of the only picture she’d kept had been easily put aside after her initial bout of rage. And now here she was, about to go back to the bed where that very same saiyan slept.

                “I’m so sorry.” She whispered aloud, hugging herself and snuffling quietly as the tears finally broke, cascading quickly down her cheeks, soon to evaporate in the stifling heat of the room. “I did love you. I really did.” Bulma added, hoping desperately that there was something left of him, somewhere, to hear and understand her. She wanted to apologize for moving on so quickly, for allowing her feelings for Vegeta to eclipse whatever her heart still held for him, but found the words stuck in her throat. For all it probably made her an awful person, for all it seemed uncaring, she really wasn’t sorry for whatever it was that she had with the saiyan prince. 

                Abruptly, Bulma vaulted from the floor to her feet, and fled the room. Her sense of guilt was too powerful, too immediate and overwhelming to remain where she was, staring at the thing which had served, for all intents and purposes, as Yamcha’s coffin. She tiptoed quickly through the halls, willing herself not to think about it as she made a beeline for the one person who might possibly be able to help her put it from her mind, even though the fact that it was him only doubled her guilt.

                Vegeta grumbled when she climbed into bed next to him, growling when she stuck her chilly toes beneath his calves to warm them up. She felt a little better, though his presence was not immediately erasing all disturbing thoughts as she’d hoped.

                “Why are you sweaty and cold all at once?”

                “Sorry, did I wake you?” She asked, feeling the tension in her mind begin to relax, despite his surly tone. If given the choice to do it all again, even if Yamcha had returned to Red Station, she knew without doubt that he’d not have been the one sharing her bed this night.

                “I wasn’t asleep. Where did you go?”

                “Umm...had to burn some things.” Bulma said, after a pause. Lying to Vegeta usually didn’t work and she didn’t often try.

                “You had to...burn...things.” Vegeta repeated, snorting. “Only you...”

                “Hey, we have talked about the _Bulma is crazy_ tone. None of that, mister.” She whacked his arm lightly and felt the telltale rumble in his chest that meant he was holding in laughter. Her heart tightened, wondering how she’d have ever lived without him. “I found some notes of Gero’s today; some ideas that he had and some blueprints for a project...awful things.”

                “Hn.” Vegeta responded and Bulma couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Vegeta could always be counted on to not give a shit about things, and while that often drove her crazy, it was sometimes reassuring. In that simple sound, he was saying it would be okay; Gero was dead, his influence gone. If it was worth worrying about, then Vegeta would be worrying about it. Or at least, that’s what Bulma liked to think. If she told him the other thing that was bothering her - the fact that she felt guilty about not thinking about Yamcha enough - he’d call her stupid for dwelling on a dead man, his own jealousy notwithstanding.

                In truth, Vegeta had plenty of his own things to worry about, things he wasn’t necessarily ready to share them. He’d been stewing all night, awake and feigning sleep even as Bulma had crawled out of bed and shuffled out with her secret stack of papers. He’d wondered where she was going, but the woman’s sleep schedules were sometimes as erratic as his own, and it was not uncommon for her to get up at odd hours of the night, just to jot something down or try out a sudden idea for one of her projects. Besides that, he figured he’d know pretty quick if anything untoward was happening, since he was pretty well tuned to the ki of everyone on the ship at this point. That meant he could track the movements and general state of everyone but Sixteen, and the big android did not concern him.

                No, what held sway in his brain at the moment was the stupid, weak excuse for a Saiyan, floating downstairs in the med bay. Gohan was a child, but a mature one, and not prone to lying, had he even the guts to do so to his prince and leader. There was no questioning the truth of Gohan’s words, but even saiyan eyes were known to make mistakes, and the mystery lay in whether the cub had _actually_ seen what he _believed_ he had seen.

                Vegeta’s initial instincts told him that it was impossible. There had never been any record of multiple Super Saiyans occurring all at one time, but nor was Vegeta aware of any records stating that the predisposition ran only in royal lines, or even in strong ones. It was simply assumed, though with the last recorded transformation having occurred roughly one thousand years prior to Vegeta’s birth, there was a rather large chunk of time during which the records might have become corrupted. And if it was true that Kakarott had completed the first of what Vegeta saw as the steps toward the transformation, how long before the third class actually ascended?

                Vegeta’s lips curled back in a silent sneer as he imagined someone else achieving alone what he’d needed so much help to do, and a small part of him wished that Kakarott would just die in his next attempt. Of course, his rational brain understood that Radditz had made a good point; if Kakarott could transform, there should be no reason why the other three might not achieve it as well, and the thought of the power that would be contained within five Super Saiyans was enough to make him hard.

                It wasn’t _fair_ though. _He_ was the chosen one, the prophesized saviour of their people. He’d lived his life with this assumption of greatness, the knowledge that his destiny would set him apart from every saiyan who’d ever taken breath within the past ten centuries. And now a third class, one on death’s door, no less, was flying in the face of everything Vegeta had ever believed. To say it was galling was very much an understatement.

                “What are you huffing about?” Bulma sighed, startling him with her voice. He’d sort of forgotten she was there, to be honest, and had assumed that she would have fallen back asleep.

                “Nothing.”

                “If it’s nothing then why are you all in knots over it. Don’t lie, I can tell you are.” She pointed out, forestalling his protests. Tension was practically rippling through his every muscle and she’d have to have been dead not to notice it.

                “Fine. But before you ask, the answer is no, I do not wish to speak of it.” He retorted, after a moment of frustrated silence.

                “Well you’re going to have to talk about something, because I sure as hell can’t sleep. Tell me a story or something.” Bulma jabbed him in the ribs and shifted around, seeking a more comfortable position as though that might defeat her insomnia.

                “Shall I tell you of the murder of Rasha Penthallin, emperor of Zixal? Or perhaps the purge of Omigret would make a better bedtime tale. Nice and bloody.” Vegeta snorted, moving an arm to accommodate her as she repositioned herself against him.

                “You’re awful.” Bulma wrinkled her nose in disgust, and felt Vegeta shrug beneath her. It was easy for her to recall why most of the universe thought him a cruel and callous monster. She had, for long enough. “Why...” she paused, looking at the clock and wondering if she wanted to open this can of worms so late at night, “why did you stay with Frieza?” She asked, swallowing her apprehensions and pushing forward even as she felt him tense up. “Why didn’t you run, once you’d decided to join the resistance?”

                “He would have found me.” Vegeta answered stiffly after a moment. He had not been expecting such a serious change of subject. “And I was much more effective from my position within the empire than I ever could have been as a refugee.” They were quiet for a time, neither party really sure what to say.

                “Will you...” Bulma paused, biting her lip. “Will you tell me about Yamcha? Sable, I mean.” She finished, burying her face against his chest as the muscles in his arm tightened around her, then loosened and tightened again. She could feel his fingers  fisting and unfurling against her hip, as he often did while trying to reign in his anger. “Are you mad?” Bulma asked, tightening her hold on him as though he might try and hop out of bed at any moment.

                “I have been expecting this.” He said after a tense moment, which was not really an answer, but she was afraid to push. “We never did finish any of our previous conversations on this subject.” He continued and Bulma squirmed as unhappy memories were dredged up.

                “Will you tell me now? About him? It’s only that I’ve been thinking too much tonight...” She added lamely, as though trying to justify her curiosity.

                “There is not much to tell.” Vegeta sighed, rolling his head briefly away from her on the pillow, before straightening back out to stare once more at the ceiling. “I learned of his activities and I watched him. I made contact one day, shortly before we found Gohan, when he was in trouble. And through him I gleaned what information I wished of your operations. I supplied him with what tips I could, which he turned over to you with what he’d gathered on his own.”

                “And why did he never tell me?” She whispered, and Vegeta snorted.

                “Aha, the heart of the matter is finally reached. Did you feel betrayed, at the end? Did you realize, in his last moments, that he’d been lying to you for years?” Vegeta asked, a little cruelly, and continued even as he felt Bulma stiffen next to him. “This is what bothers you the most about the matter, is it not?” He chuckled, coldly, but when he spoke after a moment his voice was serious again; hard and emotionless. “He knew that if he told you about his contact with me, then I would kill him, and hunt you down. That was a very dangerous time, and Vengeance was flying largely under the radar. I wanted Frieza’s forces to think I was dead or cowed by fear. It would not have done for anyone untrustworthy to know I was active. Our relationship was one of business and he was not foolish enough to assume I might be kind to him if the situation required otherwise.”

                “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?” Bulma knew she was whining a little, but somehow she’d been expecting much more. As though Yamcha had lived some whole secret second life that Vegeta had been party to.

                “What?” He laughed. “Did you think that Sable and I had long and intense conversations with each other? Do not be foolish, Bulma. As Vengeance I knew much, but I am not omniscient.”

                “Yeah.” Bulma sighed and rolled over onto her back, still within the crook of Vegeta’s arm, with her neck resting on his bicep. “I know. I just wish...I wanted to know what he was thinking.”

                “Well, until you invent a time machine, and are able to go and confront him, consider that avenue closed to questioning.”

                “Ugh, you just watch me. Maybe I will.” She pinched him on the thigh and turned her head to stick her tongue out at him, knowing full well that his night vision was at least twice as good as hers and he would probably see it.

                “Vulgar woman.” Vegeta snorted, rolling his eyes. “I don’t doubt you would find a way.”

                “Would you really have hunted the rest of us down? Killed me just for knowing who you were?” Bulma asked softly, after a long period of silence. She wasn’t actually even sure that he was awake, but the rhythm of his breath seemed to say he was.

                “Yes.” Vegeta answered without hesitating even for a second. “I would have.”

                “Oh.” Bulma whispered, feeling like a small child in his arms. She’d been hoping for the opposite, but not really expecting it. “I’m glad he didn’t tell then.” She added after a second or two, lest Vegeta think she was upset about it. She wasn’t...not really. “But later...after you and I began talking?”

                “No,” he sighed heavily and her head rode up on his rising chest as he took a deep breath, “you had become very...useful...to me. I would not have killed you then.”

                “Good.” Bulma stifled a yawn and hid a smile against Vegeta’s chest, wondering what had happened in her brain that she equated a statement like that with a declaration of love.

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Let’s do the time warp again! It’s been a while since we jumped around in time. We go now to a period roughly 6 months-ish after Bulma and Co. Arrive at Red station.

Also, I GOT FANART!!! Look ‘em up at Deviantart and heap praise upon the artists! “Kush” by Debaleena (This was actually drawn a while ago, and because I’m a turd I forgot to mention it.) And also “Vengeance Fan Art 01” by fazkataz. (warning: contains boobies!)

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ROUGHLY TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO

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                Yamcha winced as Bulma brushed past him, hardly even sparing a glance for her beau. He’d been wondering if she was still pissed about the argument they’d had earlier, and apparently the answer was yes. Which wasn’t really fair, considering that she’d started it, and been the one to finish it, too. He’d been left smarting from her vicious barbs, while she flounced away like she was floating on clouds.

                “Aww, c’mon babe, can’t you even look me in the eye? I’m leaving soon and who knows when I’ll back back. If I’ll be back,” he added, trying to play on her sense of guilt. He had a feeling that she was walking around with her ‘off’ switch flipped, and he’d kind of been hoping for some goodbye sex. It was a dangerous gamble, as trying to get some was what had sparked the argument in the first place, but he was willing to risk it. Makeup sex with Bulma was always better than any he’d had with any other girl; maybe that was why they had such an on-off relationship.

                “Don’t you ‘babe’ me, Yamcha,” Bulma snapped, eyes flashing and hair swinging as she spun round on her heel and advanced on him like a furious wildcat. “And don’t you try and pull that guilt trip on me! Imagine!” she huffed, sticking out her finger to poke him in the chest. “Trying to guilt me into bed! Is that all I am to you, Yamcha? A walking orifice?”

                “Foul, Bulma, don’t talk like that,” Yamcha wrinkled his nose and shoved her jabbing hand away. “And quit poking me.”

                “Oh what, am I hurting you, strong man?” she snapped back. “Not ladylike enough for you? Maybe I should bat my eyes and swoon more, be a little less self-sufficient.”

                “Ugh, I don’t know why I bother,” Yamcha shot back, throwing his hands up in the air and stepping out of arms’ reach. “You know what, if you feel that way, then don’t even bother saying bye tomorrow.” He rolled his eyes and stalked off, leaving her fuming.

                “Oh go martyr yourself somewhere else!” she called at his retreating back, shaking her fist and wishing she had something to throw as he disappeared around the corner.

                “Fight with the old lady?” Roshi grinned, falling into step beside Yamcha as he went off to lick his wounds in private. Bulma always knew just which buttons to push to embarrass him, and she wasn’t shy about making a scene. The more public the fight, the louder she got, as though everyone in the entire universe needed to know how big a jerk she thought he was.

                “Bugger off, Roshi,” Yamcha sighed, “And don’t call her that. She’d kill you if she heard.” He smirked despite himself, and patted the old man on the shoulder. “Ahh, what the hell. Want to come get drunk with me? I know where Bulma hides the SiHo, and at the moment, I couldn’t care less if I leave her stash a few bottles lighter.” He looked at his watch; eighteen hours till he was scheduled to blast off. Surely that was enough time to sober up, so long as he didn’t overdo it too much.

                “Did I hear someone say SiHo?” Oolong appeared at his other side, seemingly out of the woodwork. “A man needs his pals when he’s down in the dumps.”

                “You just want to know where the horde is.” Yamcha snorted. “Well I ain’t telling either of you, just so you know. I’m feeling reckless, alright, but I don’t have a death wish.” He shook his head firmly in illustration. Bulma was pissed already, and she’d be damn well past furious when she found her stockpile raided. If she had to find a new hiding spot on top of that, she’d murder him. Keeping everyone from going insane while all cooped up together on Red Station was challenge enough without throwing the potential threat of alcoholism into the mix. The stuff was normally rationed carefully by Bulma and Chichi, though every once in a while someone like Roshi would discover the hiding spot and things would go to pot for a day or two. Yamcha was one of the lucky ones, able to relieve his pent up aggressions and frustrations out in service of the resistance movement, but Roshi and Oolong hit the jackpot if they were allowed to make so much as a supply run. Suffice to say, it was not exactly the best time in any of their lives.

                “What’s up her butt this time, anyway?” Master Roshi asked, daring a glance back at the blue-haired banshee. Lucky for him, she’d calmed herself down enough to return to her checklist and was no longer cursing a streak at them from down the hall.

                “Not Yamcha, that’s for sure!” Oolong snorted a piggy laugh, and Roshi cackled with delight, while the poor man in mention made a face at his two companions. “Or maybe that’s what the fight was about. You know, a lot of guys have problems getting their girls to do anal.”

                “Oh what would you know about it, porkface?” Yamcha snapped. “Only chicks you ever had, you had to kidnap. And no nasty talk about my girl.” He shoved Oolong against the wall and held the little oinker by the front of his stained wife-beater tank. “Keep your damn pervert thoughts to yourself. You can both forget about the SiHo, by the way,” he added, releasing Oolong’s shirt and running his hand through his mussed up hair. “I’m going to go work out instead.” He whirled away from them, wondering why on dear, departed Earth he’d ever thought them good companions to commiserate with about women, and especially Bulma, arguably the most contrary female in the universe. Roshi and Oolong’s particular brand of porn-mag advice would do him no good.

                “Fine, be like that!” Oolong taunted, but only after Yamcha had stomped out of range. He pulled his shirt straight, indignantly brushing at the spot where Yamcha’s clenched fingers had wrinkled it all up. “What’s the world coming to, when even the bandits are pussy whipped?” he muttered to Roshi, who sighed and nodded. The old master liked Yamcha, he really did, but he wondered where the fire had gone. Odd that taming his fear of girls had also apparently tamed a bit of his reckless spirit. One would think that the opposite might have happened.

                “Cabin fever, old chum.” Roshi patted the pig on the head twice, his hand darting away before Oolong could slap it off. “These young folks don’t know how lucky they are.” He shrugged, watching until Yamcha turned the corner and disappeared. “Well, come on then. I was going to save this for your birthday, but,” he waggled bushy eyebrows and winked behind the cover of the garish sunglasses he still wore sometimes, “I managed to sneak a little something back with me, last time I went on a supply run with Chichi. A hundred and ten glossy pages, my porcine pal.”

.

.

                “Man, breaking up the day you leave. That’s rough,” Krillin said, easily dodging a half-hearted kick from Yamcha, who did not pursue with a second.

                “I know, right!” Yamcha sighed and wiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

                “What’d you do, anyway?” Krillin took the opportunity for a break too, crossing the training mat to take a swig from his water bottle. Not that he really needed it, but it was something to do; training with Yamcha was never very strenuous after a bout with Bulma. She left him slow and mopey.

                “Tcha!” Yamcha glared at his friend. “What makes you think I did something?” He sneered sulkily back at Krillin’s raised eyebrow and the look in his friend’s eye that said _oh? Do explain_. “Okay, so I did do something. She says I forgot our anniversary.”

                “Ooh, bad move.”

                “How the hell am I supposed to remember it when it keeps changing?” Yamcha sputtered, ruthlessly yanking the elastic from his hair and gathering it all up once more at the base of his neck. “I mean, seriously. Every time we break up and get back together, she says it changes because why would we celebrate the one from when we went out before? She’s crazy, man!”

                “Meh, at least you have an anniversary to forget.” Krillin shrugged, trying not to be bitter about the fact that the only other available female on the ship was his best friend’s widow. Talk about rough. “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her off your hands for a while,” He laughed, trying to make himself forget how long it had been since he’d even taken a girl on a date, much less had one in his bed.

                “No offense, K man, but I don’t think you could handle Bulma.” Yamcha tightened his ponytail and cracked his neck like he was getting ready to jump in this time with full force, even though Krillin suspected the spar would be twice as pathetic as it had started out.

                “And you think _you_ can?” Krillin cocked his eyebrow again and laughed at Yamcha’s shocked face. “Oh please Yamcha, how many times have you two broken up and gotten back together? I’m not saying you guys aren’t going to live happily ever after, but your definition of ‘happily’ better involve a lot of yelling because I don’t think there’s a man in this entire universe who could ever _handle_ that woman.”

                “Man, Krillin, it ain’t that easy. I love Bulma, you know? I can’t just break it off.”

                “I never said you should, Yamcha.” Krillin sighed, watching as Yamcha’s posture slumped, and knew he wasn’t going to get the work out he’d hoped for. Maybe Chichi’d be up for a spar after dinner. “I’m just saying that you’ve gotta understand she’s always going to be volatile like that. Bulma is no shrinking violet. How can you not see that after all these years?”

                “I see it,” The tall man muttered, crossing his arms and looking away like a sulky child. “I just...I dunno.” He scuffed at the floor with the toe of one sneaker, feeling like an idiot.

                “You just wish she wouldn’t pick so many fights, I get it,” Krillin laughed, “Boy, do I get it. I can’t count the number of times she gave me an earful back in the good days.”

.

.

                Bulma tapped her pencil irritatedly against her desk, scowling down at the schematics before her with all the malice in the world. In the top right corner, she’d doodled a picture of Yamcha picking his nose, complete in all its immature glory with a word bubble that read “I’m a jerk.” Then she’d regretted it of course because one, it was beyond childish, and two, she’d ruined her pristine blueprints and would have to draw up a second copy. Paper of this quality was expensive and she hadn’t yet gotten used to the fact that she wasn’t rich anymore.

                “Frugality is not in my nature,” She sighed aloud, reaching for another sheet after debating whether to just try and scratch the stupid picture out. She’d tried erasing it, but in her irritation, she’d pressed down pretty hard and her artistry was still evident. She rolled the papers in one hand before shoving off the desk hard, her wheelie chair carrying her gracefully across the floor toward her lightboard, where she clipped the sheets and began the tedious job of tracing a new copy for herself. The big printer had run out of ink two weeks prior, and the old coot Gero had refused to finance a trip until more supplies were needed, so she’d been forced to do everything by hand.

                “Ugh, so primitive,” she muttered, rubbing out a cramp in her hand. Sure, she was used to drawing up schematics with a pencil and paper, but it was much more convenient to just scan the finished product into a computer and then print off a new one when you messed it up. “Next he’ll be insisting that I write on the walls in charcoal smudges, because pencils have become too pricey.”

                “Pfft, charcoal? Too expensive. You’ve got blood, don’t you?” Krillin’s loud, laughing voice startled her and she whipped her head around to glare at him for a moment before bending back over the table to erase the squiggled line she’d drawn by mistake. Thankfully, this one came out. “Oops, sorry. Haha.” He rubbed the back of his bald head in embarrassment. “Didn’t come here to piss you off, though my actions so far might seem to the contrary.”

                “Ahh, sorry Krillin,” Bulma sighed and put her eraser down, turning off the light for a moment to make sure that all traces of the blip were gone. She switched it back on and waved him over, turning back to the board as he dragged a chair up beside her. “I’ve been pretty cranky today, I guess. You probably talked to Yamcha, huh?”

                “Yeah, he’s in knots.”

                “Feh, as usual,” Bulma snorted, leaning in close and squinting at a particular detail. She slid the original sheet out, and carried it over to her computer to check a detail, tutting in annoyance when she confirmed that there was a mistake. “Gah, no wonder I’ve been having so much trouble with this stupid thing!” she exclaimed, making a quick fix on the paper. “Copied this out wrong. Stupid printer, what a pain!” She stomped back over to Krillin and set the blueprint back underneath her half-finished copy. “Anyway,” she continued as though the interruption had never happened, “he’s always _in knots_ and nothing ever changes. Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother.”

                “Cause even though he’s a nose picking jerk,” Krillin grinned, tapping the corner of the paper where the doodle showed through, “you love him.” He withdrew his hand at her responding glare, thinking that maybe even though he hadn’t been with anyone in over a year, maybe he didn’t want to go around wishing Bulma might fall into his bed. He hadn’t been joking when he’d told Yamcha she was volatile.

                “You know, just because I’m not little miss domestic,” she spun her chair to face him, waving her pencil in his face as she spoke, “does not mean I wouldn’t appreciate some romance beyond _hey babe, I’ll rub your back if you rub my front._ ”

                “Your Yamcha impression needs work. If he actually said that, you maybe just need to scale back his Roshi and Oolong time.” Krillin raised an eyebrow in disbelief and Bulma whirled back to her work, red faced.

                “Okay fine, so he didn’t _say_ it, but it’s what happens. Back on Earth there were flowers and candy, and dinner dates. Just because those things are gone, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to try. Earth blowing up is not a free pass, Krillin,” She insisted. “I mean really, I sometimes wonder if we just keep getting back together because there’s no one else out here.”

                “One, ouch.” Krillin feigned a wounded heart. “And two, you kept getting back together when we were on Earth, and there were plenty of other choices there.”

                “I know...but...”

                “But?” Krillin prodded, even though he suddenly felt very uncomfortable, as though privy to information he didn’t really want to know. He and Yamcha had become very close on the ship, and though Bulma had been a good friend for much longer, he didn’t like to think he might be blamed for getting in between the two of them. If this was a _tell me what to do_ type confession, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear it.

                “It’s different,” She said, sounding a little sad. Distant. “Since we came out here, it’s not the same. On Earth I had everything. Time, money, beauty. I could afford to fool around. Out here, doing what we’re doing, death could be right around the corner.” She looked over at him, imploringly. “I don’t want to wake up in heaven or whatever one day, cursing myself because I wasted my life away down here.”

                “Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” Krillin replied carefully, and Bulma winced, as though just realizing how bad that sounded.

                “I don’t mean that Yamcha is a waste of time, you know,” she pleaded for understanding.

                “He’s one of my best friends, Bulma,” Krillin said. “I’m not sure what to say.”

                “You boys,” Bulma looked back to her table, though she put her pencil back down and simply stared at the muted square of light, “always forgetting that I’m supposed to be your friend too. Always going off and leaving me behind. Do you _know_ how long I waited for that jerk, while he was off living in the woods like a wild man? Always training or whatever.” She turned her nose up, trying to sound indignant even though Krillin could hear the shake in her usually confident voice.

                “Aww, Bulma...” he tried, putting a hand on her shoulder, and she slapped it off immediately. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

                “Just go away Krillin. Go back to the boys’ club. Do whatever, I don’t care.” She shook her head as though to clear it, and picked her pencil back up, leaning forward with new determination as Krillin slid off his chair and slunk from the room, not really sure how the situation had managed to get twisted so that he became the bad guy. Damn, Bulma was good, Krillin thought, shaking his bald head as he went off to find Yamcha and make sure the guy had a place to sleep for the night.

.

.

                “Bulma Briefs, you have got to be kidding me,” Chichi stood in the door, arms crossed and foot tapping so hard Bulma thought she might just put a dent in the metal. She tapped her wristwatch. “Do you have any idea what time it is? You’re not even to come out and say goodbye?”

                “Wasn’t planning on it.” Buma shrugged and turned her back to the door. She’d been watching the clock all morning; she knew what time it was right down to the second.

                “What were your last words to him?” Chichi demanded, uncrossing her arms and planting them on her hips.

                “Oh, geez, Chichi. Just leave me alone.”

                “What were your last words, Bulma? Do you remember them?” she snapped. “Because I sure as hell remember mine to Goku. They were not nice. And I was screaming them.” She advanced into the room, working every angle of maternal guilt she knew how. “And let me tell you Bulma, there is nothing in my life I regret more. So I don’t care how angry you are, because this is just childish. Get your butt out of that chair, and go be civil and say goodbye.”

                “You’re being ridiculous.” Bulma finally dropped her pencil and rolled her eyes at her friend.

                “And you never know,” Chichi retorted, leaning pointedly on the work table, fingers tapping a drumbeat of shame.

                “Ok, fine.” Bulma slammed her fist on the table and shot out of her chair, scowling at Chichi’s knowing smirk. “Fine, I’m up. You happy? You want me to go kiss and make up with Yamcha? Because you know, I’m the crazy one, I’m obviously wrong.”

                “Oh cut it out, Bulma. That will not work on me; I am a mother.” Chichi shook her head and grabbed Bulma by the wrist, yanking her forward and dragging her quickly from the room before she could change her mind.

.

.

                Yamcha sat back in the captain’s chair and sighed, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. Beside him, he could hear Puar unbuckling from his own seat and the familiar pop of smoke as the cat shifted back into his natural form. He opened his eyes just in time to see Puar dip down to the floor and grasp the pair of pants from where they’d fallen. “That’s different,” he said, looking over at his oldest friend, who’d begun to fold up the jeans. Yamcha looked for the shirt and, not seeing one, realized it must have been part of Puar all along. “The pants, I mean. Normally you just fabricate all of the clothes.”

                “Yeah...uhh...” Puar trailed off, spinning around quickly as though that would erase his embarrassment. “It’s a new form I’m trying to perfect. Didn’t have the mass for pants.” He put the folded garment down on the console panel, fussing with the folds as Yamcha watched. He suddenly felt ridiculous, wishing that he’d just gone with the tried and true Yamcha imitation. Or that he’d gotten one of the Briefs to install the kitty harness into the mini ship.

                “Ok, cool.” Yamcha shrugged and unfastened his own buckle. He stretched out as he stood, standing on his tip toes and reaching his arms toward the ceiling. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” he yawned as he settled back on his heels. “You mind watching the autopilot for a bit? I’m going to try and catch some z’s.”

                “Yeah, no problem.” Puar shrugged and settled himself on top of the console. “So you and Bulma...”

                “Ha...” Yamcha snorted. “Yeah, that didn’t fix itself.”

                “Maybe you should buy her a present.” The cat curled up, wiggling and shifting until he’d found the perfect spot in between all the buttons and dials. “Bulma always did like presents. Something nice, to show her you’re serious.”

                “Yeah, maybe,” Yamcha sighed and scratched his chin, letting out another jaw-cracking yawn as he ambled off toward the bunks. Puar narrowed his eyes at his friend’s retreating back, having been waiting for a scritch that never came. Mumbling a kitty grumble, he scratched behind his ear with his own paw, but it just wasn’t the same.

.

.

                “Crap,” Yamcha hissed as he ran down the alley, desperately tapping at the fritzing out earpiece  with one finger. “Crap, crap crap! Puar, can you hear me?” he asked, wincing as a garbled reply came through. “Can’t understand you, man!” He tucked the box under his arm and ducking around a corner, briefly glancing back to see whether or not he’d lost his pursuers. No such luck. The two brutes were still trailing behind, and one caught the movement of his head, ducking back quickly behind the wall.

                “E’s over there!” the soldier called, pointing his pistol and firing wide. “Shit, e’s quick!”

                Yamcha took off again as he heard their steps pounding along the concrete, wishing he’d had a chance to encapsulate the stupid box before the two heavies had caught sight of him. Puar’s muddled voice cracked through the speaker in his ear again, totally unintelligible, and he cursed Bulma even though he knew it probably wasn’t her fault. She was a vindictive woman at times, that was true, but he knew that she’d never do anything that might endanger his life, no matter how angry she might’ve been. “Yikes! Watch it!” Yamcha yelped as a blast hit the wall above his head. The two behind him were catching up, and he was having trouble navigating the maze of alleys, too afraid to fly lest he draw the attention of more of Frieza’s men. “Of course,” he snarled, stopping in his tracks as he hit a dead end. “Shit.” He whipped around, looking for an exit, a door he could bust through, anything. Nowhere to go. Cursing, he stashed the box under a pile of trash and prepared for a fight. Much to his surprise, however, his two pursuers did not follow him around the corner. Instead, a single figure in a cloak came striding into view, footsteps echoing menacingly off the tall buildings that surrounded them. The stranger stopped fifteen feet away and Yamcha squinted, trying to make out features beneath the fabric.

                “Hey...uh...what happened to those guys? Are you with them?” Yamcha stammered, sinking his heels into the ground and preparing to fly for his life.

                “I took care of them,” said the stranger, and Yamcha felt a chill run down his spine at the man’s voice. He could not place it as anyone he’d heard before, but he knew it wasn’t friendly.

                “Uhh, thanks.” Yamcha took a step back, and the stranger took a step forward.

                “Not so fast, Sable.” He said, and Yamcha felt his heart jump into his throat.

                “How do you know that name? Who are you?” he snapped, gasping in shock as the stranger seemed to phase out, moving so fast that even Yamcha could hardly see him, only to appear again only two feet away. He was much shorter than the Earth fighter, and yet that didn’t seem to diminish the fear that Yamcha felt in the slightest. Goku’d kicked his ass at the age of twelve, and Krillin, half his height, could take him down at least seven times out of ten. No, Yamcha held no height-based prejudices.

                “I make it my business to know things. Such as what you’ve got in that box, where your ship is, and who your co-conspiritors are. Blue, I believe? An enchanting codename,” The stranger sneered.

                “You don’t know shit!” Yamcha barked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck raise the way Puar’s did when he was feeling threatened. What did this man want? “Who the fuck are you?”

                “Tsk, tsk. No need to yell, Sable.” The stranger wagged a white-gloved finger in his direction, and though Yamcha couldn’t see his face, he would have sworn the stranger was smirking beneath his hood. “You’ll only draw unwanted attention. You may call me Vengeance.”

                “V...Vengeance?” Yamcha stammered, stumbling back a few surprised steps until his back hit the wall with a thud. He’d heard the name before, murmured like an incantation over the resistance channels, muttered in dark venues by those both terrified and desperate to invoke this rancorous spirit. No one had heard anything of him in years, even since before Earth was destroyed. “Vegeance is gone. Dead.”

                “I don’t believe in ghosts, Sable, and am most certainly not one myself,” The stranger scoffed. “Though if you choose not to believe me, I will not argue. One less person who knows I am active again.” The man shrugged beneath his cloak, and Yamcha caught a glimpse of white boots beneath; standard issue in Frieza’s forces.

                “You’re wearing Empire boots. How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

                “What purpose in tricking you? If I wanted what you’ve got, you would be dead with the two buffoons around the corner.” Vengeance crossed his arms, appeared to cock his head beneath the cloak. “Granted, I did think about taking it from you, but it is better in her hands.”

                “Who are you talking about?” It was as though the man, Vengeance, had reached out and grabbed his heart, squeezing with icy fingers that chilled him to the bone and stopped the blood in his veins.

                “Why Blue, of course,” Vengeance said lightly, as though they were discussing who to invite to Sunday brunch. He sauntered toward the heap of junk that Yamcha had hidden his cargo beneath, and pulled out the box. “You see, Sable,” he turned back toward Yamcha, tossing the box lightly from hand to hand, “despite whether or not you believe I am who I say I am, it is really in your best interests to do as I say. I could snap your neck in a second, though I am choosing not to. And do not think my reach is so short that your precious comrades would be safe.”

                “You’re bluffing,” Yamcha spat, though he was close to shaking. He could feel the power emanating off the cloaked man and knew without a doubt that he would be dead if Vengeance wished it so.

                “Believe what you will, Sable.” A shrug again, a shifting beneath the cloak. “All that matters to me is what you do.”

                “And what is it that you want, exactly?” Yamcha’s hands clenched against the rough wall at his back and he felt a sudden, feverish desire to scrabble against it, to dig through to the other side with nothing but his fingernails as tools. He could feel sweat pooling beneath his arms and in the small of his back; it was a long time since he’d been so nervous.

                “Cooperation.” Vengeance spun the parcel in his grasp. “Information.” He tapped a four-fingered tattoo on the sides with both hands, while holding on with his thumbs. “And silence. You will tell no one of our acquaintance, not even your closest allies. This is not a request.”

                “What if I say no?”

                “Then you’ll die. Right here and now,” Vengeance chuckled beneath his hood, and Yamcha swallowed hard, too frozen to respond. “Hnn, that’s what I thought. Catch.” Vengeance tossed the box and Yamcha reached out instinctively, fumbling to catch it and nearly dropping it, his hands were shaking so badly. “I’ll be in touch,” Vengeance said, whirling around and walking out of the dead end as easy as he had come in. Yamcha stood for a moment, not really sure what to do, before he bolted from the wall, following the stranger, not sure if he was trying to catch up or if he was simply trying to get away. The man was gone, having left no trace of his presence but two bodies lying on the concrete, both of their skulls caved in as though they’d been smacked together, hard.

                Yamcha felt his stomach swell and quickly hurried past before he lost his breakfast. He popped a storage capsule and stuffed the box inside before shrinking it back down and stuffing it into a secure pocket inside his waistband. Then he ran like hell, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching him all along.

.

.

                Puar was pacing back and forth in a human body when Yamcha returned to the ship several hours later. “There you are!” he shouted, running up to the door as his oldest friend stepped in. “Where the hell have you been? What happened? I was worried sick, ready to go out after you!” Puar grabbed him in relief, putting clumsy human hands on his shoulders, his face. There was a pop and a puff of smoke and the familiar little cat was clinging to the side of his head, yowling questions and proclamations of worry.

                “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Yamcha was repeating, louder and louder to try and be heard over Puar’s blubbering, and half muffled by belly fur. “I’m okay!” he practically shouted, prying the little cat from his face and holding him at arm’s length. “Puar,” he said firmly, “calm down. I’m okay. I just got a little...sidetracked, that’s all.” Sidetracked, Yamcha thought bitterly, was a little bit of an understatement. After parting ways with Vengeance he’d wandered, more or less aimlessly, through the streets for hours, trying to rid himself of the phantom stalker he felt before going back to the ship. He’d been to three pubs, ordered seven Alkabrews between them and drank only about half of a glass in total. Even now, his nerves still rattled and shook, though he was fairly sure he’d lost whoever was tailing him, if there was ever anyone at all.

                “Hey, what’s this?” Puar asked, dutifully changing the subject as he squirmed free of Yamcha’s grip and flitted over toward the ship’s exit hatch, where Yamcha had dropped a cloth-wrapped parcel on the table prior to Puar’s assault. “Is it a present for Bulma? You must have done a lot of searching, to take so long.”

                “No!” Yamcha yelped, striding quickly past his friend to snatch the bundle up and cradle it protectively against his chest. “It’s n-nothing.”

                “O...kay.” Puar retreated a few feet, watching his friend with worried eyes. He’d thought it simply exhaustion at first, but Yamcha looked wretched; there were bags beneath his eyes, sweat stains beneath his arms and on his back, and he was terribly pale despite having spent the day outside n the sun. “Are you alright? You look sick.”

                “Yeah...um...yeah.” Yamcha closed his eyes and exhaled heavily through his nostrils, and when he opened them again, he looked a little less wild. “Sick. Probably. I’m going to go and lie down.”

                “Sure, yeah.” Puar watched, puzzled, as Yamcha ambled out of the room, still clutching whatever it was he had wrapped up in that cloth. “Strap yourself down, if you don’t mind. I’m going to get us moving.”

                By the time Yamcha reached his bunk and sat down, he was trembling. His fingers shook violently as he unwrapped the gun on his lap, feeling all at once safer and stupid to have bought it. He hadn’t gone looking, not really, but once he’d seen it lying there in a pile of other Earth rubbish, with the threat of some mysterious spectre watching him, all thoughts of Bulma’s gift had vanished. There were three bullets left inside a chamber meant for six and when Yamcha had picked it up he’d been surprised to see that the safety was off, a sure-fire sign that whoever had owned this gun had probably died whilst using it to try and defend themselves. He’d left the bullets in, but flipped the safety on and checked it obsessively as he headed back to the ship, lest he end up committing accidental suicide.

                Knick-knacks from Earth were quite rare, but then again so were the people who might care about owning them, so the gun had come fairly cheap. Still though, he’d spent more than half of what he and Puar carried, and the dumbest part of it was that he knew that there was no way that a rusty old pistol would do him much good if it ever got into it with even a mildly strong member of Frieza’s forces. Why, Bulma had once told him how, upon first meeting Goku, she’d fired several rounds at him which were, to the saiyan child, no more harmful than if she’d been chucking pebbles. They’d simply bounced off. Yamcha knew he could do more damage with his ki than he ever could with the weapon in his lap, and yet there was something about holding it in his hand and feeling his finger on the trigger that was powerful. He felt like a cowboy or a supercop, like in the movies he and Krillin used to watch, sprawled out on the couch at Master Roshi’s house.

                Yamcha looked up as the ship began to rumble, vaguely recalling Puar’s words as he’d left the control room. Had that conversation really happened only minutes before? His memory was fuzzy and he wondered what else he’d missed since returning to the ship. Feeling suddenly guilty, not just for ignoring Puar, but for the whole business of the day, he checked the safety and wrapped the gun up again, stuffing it beneath his mattress so that Puar would not find it later. He dashed out to the control room to find Puar, wearing his imitation-Yamcha form, strapped into the captain’s chair. Yamcha took the other, securing his own belts with fumbling fingers made worse by the rumbling and juddering of the ship as it began to lift off.

                “I hate these smaller ships,” Yamcha complained as they bounced their way up and out of the planet’s atmosphere and into space. “Such a bumpy ride.”

                “I thought you were going to sleep through it.” Puar leaned over the console and tapped some adjustments into the computer.

                “Nah, changed my mind.” Yamcha shrugged and didn’t say anything more, feeling queasy as the ship finally broke out into space. They would be back at Red in under a week. Things would be okay.

.

.

                Two years went by, and to Yamcha’s surprise, working under Vengeance’s thumb was not so bad. The exchange of information did him no harm, and the mysterious figure never seemed to ask for much beyond the collective knowledge of the group. Of course, Yamcha had no idea where Vengeance’s intelligence was coming from, nor to whom his own was going, but so long as Red Station remained untouched and Blue was never, ever contacted directly, he didn’t care. Bulma’s inquisitive nature was often problematic – she tended to ask him for the details, over and over again as though she was trying to work out a puzzle in that powerful brain of hers, and it was sometimes difficult for him to recall exactly what he told her, which story went with which bit of information, but Vengeance was good about that too. He supplied endless lies, all tied up in a neat bow, never a thread hanging loose for her to actually grasp. Vengeance, Yamcha often thought, had a brain much more frightening than Bulma’s.

                Nothing really changed in the wake of meeting the cloaked man. Yamcha had envisioned himself a secret agent, constantly called away on dangerous missions, having to invent excuses for why he’d disappeared so suddenly from this bar or that party, just like in the movies. In reality, it was his own friends sending him out to risk his life, and often theirs alongside him. Months would pass with no word, and yet the second Vengeance made contact, Yamcha would break out in the same cold sweat that had possessed him upon their first meeting, regardless of how innocuous the communiqué might be.

                Oddly enough, bouts of communication tended to coincide with breakups with Bulma, and while Yamcha had thought he was doing a good job of hiding his second, secret life, he did wonder sometimes if the strain of it showed so much in his personality that he became unbearable to her. Then again, he and Bulma had been breaking up and getting back together for as long as he could recall, so perhaps it really was just coincidence. One day, if he was ever free of Vengeance’s yoke, perhaps he could ask her.

                The broken up times were getting longer, though, as both began to wonder what they were doing. Weeks instead of days. Months instead of weeks, and a reunion usually caused by one of them being half-naked in the vicinity of the other. Another break up, prefaced by Bulma’s musings as to whether they were together simply because of sex drive and lack of available partners. She seemed to be doing that more and more; wondering aloud why they were still going through the old routine. Did he love her? Did she love him? Was it convenience or true commitment that drew them toward each other? The tone of her voice implied the former, while in his heart he felt it was maybe the latter.

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                “Be safe, Yamcha.” Bulma leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, while he resisted the urge to turn and lay one on her mouth. They’d been broken up for about three months now, and Yamcha could feel the stirrings between them that usually indicated a reunion was imminent. This time, he promised himself, he’d do better and hold onto her longer. No more fighting, no more stalking out of her bedroom to train in the wee hours of the morning, leaving her fuming, punching pillows in her bed. He’d be what she wanted from now on. He’d do right by her.

                Yamcha smiled and waved at everyone through the window of his one-man space pod. Bulma had scored it second hand at some parts market and fixed it up for missions like this, which was handy because it meant landing wherever he wanted to, and not having to high tail it back to a docking station to escape. The pods could also start up and blast off in a matter of minutes, as opposed to a regular ship’s engine which took a little longer to get going. The downside, he thought as he programmed the sleep cycle in the onboard computer, was the cramped space. One pretty much had to go to sleep when travelling by pod, else go mad from the lack of wiggle room. As it was, pod travel left him incredibly sore and crampy, especially in his legs and butt as he could neither stand nor stretch out for the duration of the trip. Last time he’d gone by pod, he’d complained a blue streak about it, to which Bulma had tartly replied that some of Frieza’s men were known to go for months at a time inside the cramped little balls and get out in good fighting condition. And Yamcha had replied that sorry, he wasn’t in top planet-purging condition, and whatever good feelings his safe return had engendered in her were immediately and thoroughly crushed.

                This time, he’d remember not to complain. In fact, he’d compliment her on the improvements she’d made to the on-board computer system, and he’d toss a smooth one to her mom as well, about the fine job she’d done reupholstering the interior. So what if it was a bit frilly? It was much more comfortable than the hard, brown leather that had been there last time. Even if it hadn’t been, he’d be nice about it anyway because second to Bulma, Mrs. Briefs was his favourite lady. She’d been beyond sweet to him from the moment they met, always treating him like one of the family even when he and Bulma were not on speaking terms. Yamcha knew that if they were still on Earth, even if Bulma never talked to him again, there would always be an invite to dinner every holiday and a handmade sweater underneath their tree for him every Christmas. She was just that kind of lady.

                Yamcha smiled sleepily as the gas began to filter in through the little space pod’s air system. He’d grown used to living without a family, depending on Puar and only Puar for company and comfort out in their little desert hide out. Back in those times, he’d never have guessed that he’d ever feel so welcome anywhere else.

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                “Shit, Blue, they’re coming. Shit, what do I do?” Yamcha panted aloud, trusting the scouter on the side of his head to pick up his words and relay them back to Bulma. After the debacle two years ago, Bulma had begun experimenting with new communications devices, and right now her method of choice was the refurbished scouter. It wasn’t perfect; having to talk aloud could be dangerous , but it was a damn sight better than what they’d been working with before, and Bulma was studying the design of it in hopes of using it’s stellar long distance capabilities in something of her own making.

                “Calm down, don’t panic.” Her voice came through, crystal clear, and he closed his eyes briefly, trying to do as she said. A thump in the corridor drew his attention, and suddenly his heart was racing again. She spoke to him, said something that was probably important but his whole being was focused on the sounds from the hall and trying to figure out if they were real or merely imagined. “SABLE!” She shrieked, startling him into attention, “Do you hear me?”

                “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Thought I heard someone.” Yamcha mumbled in reply, swiping a hand across his eyes and willing himself to look at the computer screen. If it hadn’t been so dangerous to come here, it would be Bulma in this seat herself, fingers flying across the keyboard twice as quickly as his clumsy typing skills. Ahh, there it was; the file he was looking for. “Okay Blue, I’m into file 36 BAC but it’s asking me for a code.” Bulma was prepared, as always, and he typed out the numbers as quickly he could while she rattled them off.

                “Now I need you to copy the files onto the ghost drive and secure it.” Bulma instructed him, and he muttered his assent as he did so.

                “Shit, it’s going so slow.” Yamcha complained, his eyes alternating from the progress bar to the door, and back again. It was so nerve wracking, knowing that there was nothing at all he could do to speed up the process, and that he could not, under any circumstances, bolt and let the ghost drive fall into enemy  hands. While extremely difficult to crack, it was not impossible, and the innocuous looking little device contained details on how to contact and find Red Station. If death was a possibility, the destruction of the drive took priority over everything else.

                The device pinged its completion and Yamcha cheered to himself, reaching to grab the drive. A scuff of boots against the floor stopped him in his tracks, fingers hovering above the protruding end of the device. He turned, slowly, to see none other than Vegeta, one of Frieza’s deadliest warriors, standing in the doorway. “Oh God.” Yamcha breathed, feeling every muscle in his body tense with fear, “It’s you.”

                “It is indeed.” Vegeta said, low and throaty as Vengeance spoke, and a bolt of shock ran down Yamcha’s spine. That voice was one he knew intimately. Vegeta stepped inside, closing the door ever so gently behind him, and Yamcha dug the pistol from his waistband with fumbling hands, cocked it and pointed it straight at Vegeta’s heart. Bulma was shrieking in the background, though neither man paid her any mind, so focused as they were on each other. “My comrades will arrive soon,” Vegeta said in that cold, level voice. “I’m sure you know what will happen if they find you here alive.”

                “You sneaky fucking son of a bitch.” Yamcha breathed, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Yes, he knew exactly what would happen. Imprisonment, torture, betrayal of his friends as the ultimate shame. He took a deep breath, and knew that his choice was already made. “Gotta tell you, man, I never saw this coming.” He admitted, looking the saiyan prince up and down. He’d suspected that Vengeance was fairly high up in Frieza’s forces, but never would he have imagined that one of the universe’s greatest terrors was also its most celebrated rebel.

                “Is that not the point?” Vegeta asked, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head toward the door, listening for his three subordinates.

                “Well done, I guess.” Yamcha shrugged and sketched a salute, before turning back to the computer and disengaging the ghost drive. “Take this,” Yamcha said as the computer blipped, “and get it back to Blue for me, will you?” He tossed it to Vegeta, who caught it deftly and tucked it into a pocket within his armour. “Well Blue,” Yamcha said, feeling guilty that he could not use her real name in this last farewell. He’d keep her safe, even in his last moments he’d know he’d done all he could for her. “I guess this is goodbye.”

                “Sable, NO!” she shrieked, and Yamcha didn’t have the heart to respond. He didn’t want to cry now, not in front of Vengeance. “Don’t you dare! SABLE!”

                “I love you, Blue,” He said, tears streaming down his face as he carefully removed the scouter and set it atop the computer desk before putting the gun to his temple. Always have, and always will, he thought, pulling the trigger.

                Vegeta stepped back in time to avoid the splatter, watching with bored eyes as the life drained from this one-time comrade. Through the scouter he could hear the muffled sounds of female sobbing, of voices gathering round, questioning, crying. Sable had been his link to this group but he was no more, and this Blue, despite her dithering, she was valuable. Vegeta picked up the scouter and clipped it onto his head. “Codename Sable is dead,” he said, loud and clear. “I will be your new contact. More information will follow in three days’ time.”

                “Wait!” Shouted a male voice on the other end, just as he was about to remove the scouter. “Who...who are you?”

                “You will call me Vengeance,” Vegeta said, after a short pause. There would be no time to develop a secret relationship with the woman as he had Sable; he needed her now, and if the rest of them knew he was active again, then so be it. Vegeta reached up and clicked the big button on the side of the scouter, cutting off the line of communication before he took the contraption from his face and crushed it in his fist. He replaced his own scouter as he ground the pieces of Yamcha’s beneath his heel to ensure that no one would be able to get anything out of it.

                “There you are, Prince Vegeta!” Nappa exclaimed as he burst into the room, tapping frustratedly at his scouter. “This damn thing is broken or something. It took more than five minutes to lock onto your ki signature after you took off.” He huffed his irritation, coming to stand beside Vegeta, who was looking down at a blood soaked body.

                “Little shit offed himself before we got here.” Vegeta shrugged, uncaring of the mess at his feet as he nudged the body with the toe of one boot. “Network’s been hacked but there’s nothing on him, and no clues as to what they were after. He must’ve had an accomplice; someone who’s already escaped with whatever information they managed to pull.”

                “Then why’d this guy stay behind?” Radditz asked, and Vegeta stayed silent, trying to avoid having to try and answer that question as he wiped a bit of brain matter from his boot on Sable’s shirt. Luckily, Radditz’s attention span was hampered by the child clinging to his leg.

                “Whatsa matter, cub?” Nappa jeered, “Never seen a dead body before?” Gohan shook his head no, glaring at Nappa but unwilling to say whatever it was that was on his mind.

                “I think it’s all the blood,” Radditz said, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately. The three adults nodded approvingly at the resulting show of courage; the boy was really coming along. Nappa crouched down, emptying pockets mostly full of junk, as Radditz poked around the room.

                “Ha! Look at this relic!” he laughed, picking up the pistol from where it had fallen while his nephew did his absolute best to avoid looking queasy and heartbroken.

                “Not many valuables on him,” Nappa reported, shaking out Yamcha’s boot in case there was something hiding inside. He placed a handful of garbage on the table; a gum wrapper, two useless coins, a hair elastic, and a little box.

                “Ooh, what’s in here?” Radditz snatched the box up, dropping the gun carelessly into a puddle of blood. “Decent sized rock,” He said, cracking it open and examining the contents before showing the ring to the other three.

                “A trinket for some female, no doubt.” Nappa shrugged, standing back up after having determined that there was nothing else valuable to be taken from the corpse. “What should we do with it? Looks reasonably valuable.”

                “What do I care?” Vegeta snapped, shrugging his shoulders as he strode from the room. “Sell it.”

                “Sure thing, boss man.” Radditz grinned and followed Vegeta as Nappa pocketed the ring and did the same. Gohan brought up the lead but before he left, he turned and executed a quick bow, muttering a prayer under his breath for the soul of a friend.

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Writing the last part of this chapter was a huge pain in the butt, because I had to keep going back to reference both the dialogue (it is EXACT, baby!) and the descriptions from chapter 1. Next time we will be back into present day material.

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  This chapter takes place chronologically after chapter 36. If you’ll recall, Goku is still in the regeneration tank, having possibly made the first step to becoming a super saiyan. Zarbon received an awkward love confession from Burter (this last sentence makes me think they should be in a Japanese schoolyard, featuring Zarbon as the school’s “prince”), who is now the leader of the Burter Brigade (formerly Ginyu force). Bulma discovered and later destroyed all of Gero’s plans for Cell, and Seventeen and Eighteen show signs of being complete soon. I think that sort of sums it up. Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter – I was happy to be able to close the door, more or less, on Yamcha’s story.

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PRESENT DAY

Zarbon groaned shaking his head in an effort to make the piercing screech of alarms go away. He realized, when it did not cease, that the sudden shrill wail was coming from the hallway and not simply reverberating around his own skull; there’d been a ringing in his ears for the past three days, a result of a good wallop to the side of the head, courtesy of one angry little lizard tyrant, but this sound was louder, more insistent. If Frieza’s ranting lips were to be believed, the situation with the resistance had taken a sharp turn for the worse immediately after news of Vegeta’s arrest warrant had been made public. There were posters of his face dotting city buildings, graffiti proclaiming his impending victory. In the last week, hundreds of soldiers were known to have defected; not a huge number when one considered the millions still in Frieza’s ranks, but disturbing for the little emperor nonetheless. If men were deserting, it meant that they believed they had a chance. The illusion of hope would swell with the resistance’s ranks, and while Frieza was not yet concerned that Vegeta might have a chance in hell of defeating him, he was extremely irritated at the inconvenience that would come with having to replace the thousands of personnel that were sure to jump ship. His endeavours would suffer.

Zarbon shuddered, the memory of Frieza’s shrieking voice clanging through his skull in time with the sound of the alarm. The blows had fallen hard and fast, lacking the tyrant’s usual tendencies toward playfulness in his torture chamber. This beating, Zarbon was sure, had not given his former master any of the pleasure he normally experienced at bending an underling to his will. It had not been an elegant display of Frieza’s more sadistic tendencies as usual, but rather an expression of pure, uncontrollable rage.

There was a scuffle and a shout in the hall, followed by a smack and a thud, and Zarbon dimly wondered what might be taking place. Housed as he was in the bowels of Frieza’s prisons where only the most dangerous and most hated prisoners were kept, incidents of unrest were common. Of all the cell blocks, this one had the highest guard count and the highest average power level per guard. Death was a regular occurrence down here on both sides of the bars, and the claxon of the block’s alarm system was a fairly standard part of routine. The bell had been going for a while now though, and even in Zarbon’s rattled brain, he knew that things were normally taken care of more quickly. Something different was happening.

Zarbon strained in his chains, hoping that maybe this might be the time they would give, and knowing it was hopeless. Even if he managed to escape the restraints, it was unlikely that he would get far in his current state. Bruised, bleeding, and with several broken bones, he’d be lucky to even make it to the cell doors without collapsing. Just looking at the spattered blood on the floor and walls was enough to make him queasy with the knowledge of just how much he’d lost. The very thought of even standing up made his head spin. If the revolution was going on out there, well then he’d just have to sit it out and hope that whoever won was interested in letting him go.

Who the fuck did he think he was kidding? There was no way he could just lie there in a pool of his own blood and vomit, hoping naively for the best. He was badly hurt and hanging on to his sanity by a fraying thread, but not quite pathetic enough to roll over and die.

“Hey!” he shouted as loud as he could, even though he was fairly certain his voice would be lost in the din. “Hey! What’s going on out there? Let me out!” His throat was raw with dryness and the effort of deep breathing jarred his broken ribs, but he called out nonetheless, hoarse voice cracking with strain. “LET ME OUT!” he screamed, breaking down in coughs as his vocal cords burned in protest. He thrashed in his restraints, frustration and adrenalin making him forgetful of his wounds.

The crash of his cell door being kicked in answered him, and suddenly with boots thudding loudly on the floor behind him, he was once more aware of just how helpless he was. He turned his head, trying vainly to see who stood above him, and willed his body not to tremble.

“Fucking look at you,” a bemused voice said from behind him. “Really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Burter cocked his head and stepped into Zarbon’s field of view.

“Wh...what’s going on out there?” Zarbon gathered his wits and forced himself to speak. Burter had not returned after his awkward, revealing first visit, and Zarbon had oscillated in the meantime between relief at not having to worry about the blue-skinned man’s intentions, and disappointment at the lack of somewhat friendly contact. He wasn’t sure what to think, now that Burter was here in the midst of all this mess.

“Oh, just a bit of rioting. You know, total chaos.” He crouched down in front of the captive man so that their eyes were level, and simply watched, as though he was waiting for something.

“Wh...what are you doing here?” Zarbon stuttered, discomfort coiling in the pit of his stomach at the invasion of his personal space, the reminder of his helplessness always searing the back of his mind. At this, Burter’s face suddenly broke out into a wide, sly grin.

“I may have had a hand in starting it.” He shrugged and stood abruptly in one fluid move. Zarbon reared back, panicked thoughts flooding his brain as he turned his face away from the other man’s crotch, now flooding his field of vision. Burter seemed not to notice Zarbon’s discomfort, however, as he leaned forward and over the captive’s hunched form, to tug at the bolted down end of one chain. Undrugged and uninjured – unlike the prisoners – the restraint came loose with little effort from Burter, and the chain fell from his hand to the floor with a heavy clonk. “Can you stand?” Burter asked, tugging another chain loose.

“I...don’t know,” Zarbon answered, his heart thumping in his chest as he turned over to watch Ginyu’s successor rip the last chain from the wall, before crouching down by his feet to snap the cuffs from around his ankles leaving hands and neck for last. “I haven’t been unchained for...probably months,” he admitted, after a moment of thought, “and I think my left knee might be shattered. My right leg is broken in at least one place, maybe two.” Zarbon swallowed thickly, trying to resist the urge to fall back as Burter’s fingers brushed the skin of his neck, trying to break the heavy collar without breaking the wearer’s spinal column.

“Well...I guess there’s no choice...” the blue man muttered, settling instead on yanking the chain apart about half a foot down. “Can’t get the collar off with any speed. You’ll have to take care of that later,” he said, tapping the chain. “But at least you won’t have to drag this heavy thing with you.” He crouched and wrapped an arm around Zarbon’s middle, wedging his shoulder beneath the other man’s arm and stood quickly, hoping Zarbon was not so far gone that he would be unable to handle a little pain. “Okay?” he asked, hearing the sharp intake of breath as weight was put on the injured limbs, and a quick, desperate nod of the head was all the response he was given. No, Zarbon was not okay, but there was no way in hell he was staying where he was.

Good enough, Burter thought as he pulled a hood up to hide his face. He didn’t want any of the other inmates to pick a fight, or to be able to tattle on him later.

“Why are you doing this?” Zarbon rasped, trying to distract himself as they moved haltingly along, largely ignored by the other rampaging prisoners who were concerned mostly with their own escape, or with simply causing as much damage as they could before they were inevitably shut away again. The main commotion was on the far side of the block, so beyond a few hecklers they moved unimpeded.

“Didn’t want to see you die that way,” Burter said simply, shrugging, and Zarbon bit his lip, trying to hold in a moan as the movement jarred his broken ribs.

“If Frieza catches you...” he trailed off, knowing that a better man might have refused the help if it meant putting his saviour at risk of the tyrant’s wrath, and knowing that he was not that man.

“He won’t.” Burter peeked around a corner, watching for guards who might recognize him, before continuing along. He was half supporting, half dragging Zarbon as they moved and though as a result they were going slower than he might have liked, he figured he had at least ten or fifteen minutes more before the reinforcements would begin to gain control of the situation. “Besides, nobody’ll mourn this ugly old corpse when I go.” He paused and Zarbon, out of the corner of his eye, could see his unlikely saviour grinning. “Nobody ‘cept you, since you’re a little obligated to at least remember this. Assuming you survive your trip,” he added, frowning at Zarbon’s wheezing breath and hoping that his lungs hadn’t been punctured by broken ribs.

The docking bay was deserted when they arrived, aside from one tech who greeted them, but Zarbon could smell blood in the air and knew that there had been others here shortly before. “Everything’s ready to go, just like you said, sir.” The tech trembled a little as they hustled toward the ships, and Zarbon caught sight of a dead body in the shadows nearby. He wondered just how much money the little weasel had been paid to participate in such a traitorous deed and shook his head, knowing that there was no way in hell Burter would ever let the man live once help was no longer needed. Ahh well, no need to feel bad, he thought as they passed another body. If not this man, then one of the others; they’d all have ended up dead in the end anyway.

“It’s all prepped?” Burter asked, gently lowering Zarbon to sit against the side of some equipment, before moving toward a single-passenger pod. The hatch was open and he climbed in, long fingers tapping away at the keyboard as he checked to make sure all of his demands had been met.

“Everything is good, Sir. All tracking devices have been removed and any connection to this ship’s onboard computer has been blocked from the mainframe. I...I did just as you said.”

“Good.” Burter unfolded himself from the tiny ship, raised his palm, and the unnamed tech crumpled to the ground a moment later as a thin beam of ki sizzled its way through his forehead. “I’ve left the coordinates up to you.” Burter turned to help Zarbon up as though nothing had happened, and settled him gently into the pod. “I’m sure you know where allies are to be found much better than I do. But...do me a favour, Zarbon. Don’t come back here. Don’t fight anymore...at least not where we might meet. If I see you again soon, I’ll probably have to kill you.” He punched the hatch button and stepped back.

“Burter, wait!” Zarbon kicked out with his leg, groaning through the pain that lanced along his broken bones as he forced the hatch to stall and re-open. He hauled himself forward, half standing at the pod’s opening, clinging to it for support. “Why stay here? Why don’t you come with me?”

“Hah, you think we’re both gonna fit in there?” Burter snorted, pointing at the pod. “Nah, Zarbon, you don’t want me with you; you just feel guilty. No need. I ain’t got no problem with this place, or with Frieza, ‘cept when I was jealous over you. It’s a good life I got here.” He shrugged, as though apologizing for the fact that he did not share Zarbon’s convictions. “I go with you, and maybe you feel a bit grateful, a bit guilty and take me to bed a few times, but then you get over it, you move on and then I’m stuck there in the resistance with a bunch of whiny pricks and no chance in hell of ever getting on Frieza’s good side again. No thanks,” the barest hint of a smile tugged at his wide mouth, “I’d rather stay.”

“Burter, I,” Zarbon trailed off, frowing. He wanted to say something contrary, something that might convince the other man to leave this place, but there was really no denying the truth.

“Hah, tell you what, pretty boy,” Burter shook his head, stepped up to the pod and put his hand on Zarbon’s bruised cheek, “when this is all over, if the both of us ain’t dead yet and we ever meet again, you toss ol’ Burter a pity fuck. Yeah?”

Zarbon reached up, grabbed Burter by the back of the head, and pulled him down for a brief kiss. “It’s a deal,” he breathed, throwing himself back into the pod and smacking the hatch button. He watched Burter though the rose-glass window, his lanky form stepping back and toward the control panel for the launch pad’s pressure lock. Zarbon’s chest felt tight as the wall came down and the outer hatches opened, and it had nothing to do with the lurch and bump of the pod as it blasted away from Frieza’s mothership.

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“For those of you just tuning in, I repeat: Zarbon, former General of the Empire and recently branded a class four traitor, has escaped from high-security captivity. Sources say one to two weeks ago; the exact date is unclear,” the voice crackled over the comm-link, grainy and distorted, but the words were clear enough to the small crowd on Red Station’s control deck, who had gathered to hear the latest news. Broadcasts were few and far between these days, what with the high alert level that the Empire’s forces were on. It was dangerous work to try and get word out to so many people at once, but there were brave souls who continued on, as there always would be. “Reports are still coming in from our sources in the empire, and it is unknown at this time whether this was a solo escape or whether he had inside help. He is reported to have gotten away in a single occupant pod, destination unknown. Orders given by the tyrant himself are to kill on sight. Comrades, I issue this plea to you: protect this man at all costs.”

Static buzzed over the airwaves and Chichi fiddled with the controls, trying to get a clearer signal. Despite the seriousness of the broadcast, Bulma grinned. The man who spoke now identified himself only as Orly, and he reminded her of an old, pre-television radio play, with his booming voice and sweeping statements. She had never met him herself, but he was a popular man in the resistance for his gift with words and talent for persuasion. Beside her, Radditz snorted.

“Zarbon, huh?”

“Never thought ol’ prettyboy would have had it in him,” Nappa said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Hard place to escape from, the lower decks,” he added, in explanation.

“The addition of one of Frieza’s most trusted, most powerful men to our cause is reason for celebration, comrades,” Orly’s voice continued on, a little clearer now thanks to Chichi, “and yet we must not get ahead of ourselves. Proceed with much caution, and praise be to all the brave souls who are joining us every day, uniting under the banner of the Saiyan Prince Vegeta, known to us for so many years as Vengeance. Praise be.” The voice cut out then, and everyone looked awkwardly at Vegeta, who frowned down at the speaker as though it were Orly himself.

“Praise be to Vengeance?” Bulma snorted, jabbing him in the ribs and breaking his concentration. “You’re a regular folk hero.” Vegeta rolled his eyes at her and turned away to leave without a word. Every resistance broadcast lately had concluded in much the same way, praising one or both of his personas and urging those still on the fence to jump into the fray. How could they possibly lose, these modern day preachers asked, when they had such a strong leader? What they failed to notice, failed to mention, was that Vegeta had never promised to be any sort of a leader to anyone aside from his small contingent of Saiyans. He was now faced with a legion of people not of his choosing, all looking to him to fix their universe, to overthrow their tyrant, and despite the fact that he’d dreamed since birth of unparalleled worship, the pressure of responsibility was surprising. Every death now, every failed attempt at revolution, was now on his shoulders. The eyes of the universe were on him and if he did poorly now, it would be that much harder to cow them all when he took his place as Emperor in Frieza’s stead.

“Fuck,” he said, succinctly. “It makes it hard to conduct operations in secret when my fucking face is plastered on every building in every slum across a thousand galaxies.”

“We’ll be with Tarble soon,” Bulma said, laying a hand on Vegeta’s arm. She could feel the tension thrumming through his body, and was unsurprised when he shrugged her off. Undaunted, she continued. “We can lay low for a while, let things die down a little.”

“No,” Vegeta shook his head, “it will take months yet to get to that place, where Frieza’s claws have yet to gain purchase. The longer we wait, the more uncertain the masses will become and our cause will lose momentum. We must not halt the flow of deserters from Frieza’s forces. Now is the time for something big.”

“We’ve got no major plans,” Bulma frowned.

“Who needs plans? Why don’t we just go massacre the closest base?” Nappa chortled, and beside him Radditz was nodding eagerly, unaware of the uneasy look Puar was casting him. Bulma caught it, however, and her stomach churned in sympathy for the shapeshifter, who’d yet to see much of Radditz in his bloodthirstiest capacity. “Hell, we could just blow the whole thing up from space like Arlia. Wouldn’t even take much of a detour.”

“Too simple.” Vegeta was shaking his head, brows furrowed in thought. “Too clean and too easy,” he continued, though he didn’t have any better ideas, himself. “We need not act immediately. There is time for thinking and planning, so long as we do not delay too long.”

“We’ll keep an ear on the radio reports,” Bulma put in, casting a nervous glance at the Saiyan Prince and hoping she could come up with something better than Nappa’s suggestion of random violence. “Maybe we can come up with something a little more proactive.”

In the corner where nobody was paying much attention to them, Gohan and Dende stood side by side, they waypoint between the adults of Red Station and the cluster of Nameks along the far wall. Gohan elbowed Dende in the ribs, and the little sage wheezed sharply, having been caught off guard. He turned to glare at the young Saiyan, a lecture about recalling one’s own strength sharp on the tip of his tongue, but the intent set of Gohan’s eyes stopped him.

“What?” he mouthed silently, rubbing his side with one hand, though Gohan appeared not to notice, busy as he was wagging his eyebrows in some vain attempt at telepathy.

“Guru,” Gohan mouthed back, and Dende’s brow ridges shot up in surprise.

“Guru?” he asked aloud, and everyone turned to look at him. “Um,” Dende looked to Gohan, who was nodding enthusiastically, “Guru...he, uh...” Dende paused, fiddled with his robes, and his eyes widened as he realized what Gohan was trying to say. “The rest of the universe does not know of his passing. Perhaps...an announcement of some form. A tribute.”

“Great idea!” Gohan piped up, and Vegeta narrowed his eyes at the boy’s canned enthusiasm. Gohan stopped short of giving Dende a high five and amended his opinion of his own acting skills from _decent_ to _needs work_.

“Actually, that is a really good idea,” Bulma said, smiling over at the two boys. Dende blushed and looked to his feet as he always did when she praised him. “The people of this universe should know what he did for them.” Also, she thought privately, it was unlikely that the saiyans would feel the need to gut anyone in the late sage’s honour.

“A worthwhile suggestion,” Vegeta said dryly, crossing his arms across his chest and cocking his head to the side, eyes resting on the radio console. He furrowed his brows, appearing deep in thought as those around him chattered their ideas.

“A musical tribute! I’ll dig out my harmonica,” Dr. Briefs was saying to Krillin, who was certain that he’d never seen hide nor hair of musical talent in Bulma’s father during the last three years. The doctor could hardly hum in tune, as far as he could tell.

“Dad, you don’t play the harmonica,” Bulma saved him, rolling her eyes. “Building a harmonica simulator is not the same thing.”

“Sounds the same!” the old man retorted, and on his shoulder the black cat yowled its agreement. “See, two to one.”

“Kitty doesn’t count.” Krillin edged away as Bulma glowered down at her father, before he was roped into judging whether or not the cat was eligible to vote. It was obviously a conversation they’d had before. Unfortunately, that landed him smack dab between Roshi and Oolong.

“...still say pasties are a waste of time,” the pig was gesturing wildly, “don’t you think so, Krillin?”

“Huh?”

“For the tribute, man, don’t you listen? Pasties or bare nipple.”

“Errr,” the monk began, puzzled as to how breasts entered into a dead man’s tribute, and not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. Luckily, he was spared further information as Vegeta spoke, interrupting everyone’s conversations even though he was speaking to no one in particular.

“Not today,” he said, still frowning down at the radio, almost as though he was speaking to himself. “We must time this carefully, to our best advantage.” He looked at Chichi and Puar, who were the station’s main radio monitors. “Take notes, I want to know what everyone is saying and when they are saying it. Draft others to help you, if you need.” He looked around and straightened his posture, preparing to leave and gesturing to the saiyans to follow. “I will let you know when I am ready. For now, there is training to be done.”

“When did he become the boss?” Puar sighed after the last brown tail had disappeared, then sat down and picked up a pair of headphones, fiddling with them before he put them on. Unlike Bulma, his initiation into the mysteries of saiyan culture – or rather, group dynamics among the last remaining saiyans – was only beginning and he’d yet to develop the leader-worship that Vegeta’s presence tended to engender.

“When he went all radioactive on us, I guess.” Chichi shrugged and plugged in another set so that they could tune into different stations. Tien sat down beside her, offering his help and she reached into a drawer to hand him a third pair.

“Last I checked,” Krillin grabbed the last pair of headphones and snagged himself a chair, “the appropriate response to a bomb threat is to duck and cover, not to run screaming into the blast zone.”

“Any of you have any better ideas?” Bulma snapped, pausing in the doorway on her way out and causing a traffic jam as the following namek horde became suddenly trapped behind her. “I’d like to hear them.” She tapped her foot for a few seconds, and when no one answered she humphed and strolled out, nose held high in the air.

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“What do you mean, Zarbon is gone?” Frieza asked, tapping one finger ominously against the metal tabletop as he surveyed the empty cell, still spattered with blood, vomit, and clippings of green hair.

“He...um...sir...ah My lord, I mean...” the head of the cell block stammered, his hands clutched tightly into fists as he struggled to get the words out. “In the commotion.”

“And would you like to tell me, soldier, why no one thought it fit to inform me until now?” Frieza’s tail whipped back and forth along the floor, the only clear sign of its master’s irritation. He’d come down for a nice, relaxing bit of fun with his favourite prisoner, only to find the cell completely devoid of life.

“I have no explanation, my lord,” the commander replied, swallowing thickly. What was he to tell the Icejin? That he’d found Zarbon missing and panicked completely? That he’d searched up and down for three days in the vain hope of finding a body somewhere amongst the dead, or perhaps dragged into one of the more disturbed prisoners’ cells? And that, when those hopes died, he simply didn’t know what to do and so chose not to do anything? He didn’t have much faith that the master would accept those reasons as a legitimate excuse for his lack of a report. “I can only offer my apologies.”

“Oh, how quaint,” Frieza said snidely, turning toward the captain of his guards and trying to remember the man’s name. He sneered, failing, and realized that this was the sort of thing he’d depended upon Zarbon to keep track of. “Failure in any form cannot be tolerated,” Frieza tsked and shook his head slowly, turning to face the cowering soldier. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Y...yes sir.”

“Well then I’m sure this comes as no surprise to you.” The tiny tyrant lashed out suddenly, straightening his fingers into a blade, which he drove right through the man’s stomach and out the other side. He drew his arm back, frowning in distaste at the blood and gore dripping from his skin. He shook his hand, spattering the dead man’s face with red, and called out for his aide to bring him a clean towel. “Have a bath drawn in my chambers,” he ordered, when the young man appeared at his side, “with bubbles...and wine,” he added, as the aide was scurrying off to carry out his orders. “I am having a bad day.”

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Zarbon blinked hard in the sunlight, too stupefied by the sight of it to move immediately from his open pod. He hadn’t seen sunlight, real, honest to goodness, planet-side sunlight in months, and he’d hardly believed he ever would again. It wasn’t like him to get sentimental over something like that, but in that moment, despite the broken bones and bruises, the stiffness from so many weeks confined to a pod, and the absolute, paralyzing fear that he would soon be caught again, he knew that he was free. For the first time in decades, he was his own man.

Loathe to give that all up and get caught, Zarbon gritted his teeth and reached out, grasping the outer edges of the opening with both hands. He hauled himself forward and up, breathing hard through his nostrils as he put weight on his legs for the first time in weeks. He’d done the best he could to set the bones in his leg, but alone and cramped in the tiny pod, it had not been an easy job and besides that, the time he’d spent so far in the pod was hardly enough for a complete heal without the addition of a regeneration tank. His kneecap was thankfully not shattered as he’d initially thought, however it was disturbingly mobile beneath his skin.

Zarbon could not help the yelp that escaped his lips as he tested the tolerance of his right leg – the broken one – and he cursed himself as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Not only was he making a racket fit to draw every soldier in three planets’ distance, he thought, but if he couldn’t walk then they’d find him right alongside the stolen pod. Well, he wouldn’t go down without a fight, at least. He pressed his lips together and took a halting step, keeping most of his weight on the less injured left leg. It was painful still, but he shook his head to clear the stars from his vision and took another step and another, until he was limping away, determinedly ignoring the shooting agony. He wasn’t really sure where he was going; he’d picked this planet only because he knew there to be a sizeable population of resistance sympathizers, even if he didn’t know where to find them. All he knew was that he had to go somewhere – the pod’s life support systems had seen to his nutrition while in space, but here on the ground he was beginning to realize that he hadn’t had anything solid in his belly for weeks. Hunting and foraging, he could do, but he also badly needed medical attention, and for that he needed to find other people. He’d landed in what seemed to be a fairly remote area and didn’t have much hope of anyone friendly just happening upon the pod. No, whoever found that would be looking specifically for it and he couldn’t wait around simply hoping it would be the resistance and not Frieza’s men.

Briefly, Zarbon thought of transforming into his bulky, lizard-like form with the hopes that he might not be so easily recognized, but he quickly realized that the process would drain him of much-needed energy and strength so he remained as he was. He also thought he might have an easier time getting help in his more attractive face, bruised and mottled as it was. He’d watched himself in the red-tinted glass of the pod, breathing easier every morning when he woke to see that the swelling had subsided just that much more, even if the pigmentation remained frightening. It was at least his face again, his own delicate and pretty features, albeit awkwardly coloured.

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Night had long since fallen when Zarbon finally stopped to rest, moreso from necessity than from desire. The shaking had begun within the first hour of walking and he’d managed to ignore the minor tremors, but with each successive step they’d grown steadily worse until he could hardly keep himself from collapsing with the force of the convulsions. He was nauseous with hunger and pain, and so dizzy he couldn’t focus. He’d stopped a few times now to vomit, gagging up thin strings of sour, yellow bile from his empty stomach, and the taste clung to his lips and tongue for lack of anything to drink. He’d tried munching on some of the local flora, plucking juicy looking strands of long grass from the ground, but he gained sadly little moisture from them and he’d yet to come across a decent source of water; not even a measly puddle had crossed his path!

So now, shaking and shivering with misery and cold, pain lancing through every limb, Zarbon dropped to the ground and crawled, as best he could, beneath a short stand of bushes with wide, fat leaves that he hoped might provide some semblance of shelter. With any luck it would rain, he thought as he smacked parched lips together, and he would be able to just lie on the ground with his mouth open. And then maybe some kind animal would just walk in there too, and all he’d have to do is chew.

It was during those hopeful thoughts that he heard the first twig snap, and then a crunch of dried leaves a few feet to the left of the twig. He froze, desperately trying not to move even though he’d been partway through rolling over and his half-healed ribs were screaming for relief from this new pressure. He held his breath and listened carefully, counting sounds and trying, through the haze in his brain, to determine how many people had surrounded him and just what exactly he was going to do about it.

They had him by the arms and were hauling him out before he could even move. Lights flickered on and flashed in his face, blinding him, and weak as he was, his thrashing did little to throw them off. He lashed out with his legs, felt his foot connect with something soft and heard an oomph of pain that encouraged him to kick harder, even as lighting shot through his broken bones.

“Pin him down,” someone was hissing, “and shut him up!” And it occurred suddenly to Zarbon that he was grunting and growling, snarling and yowling with no words and no thought to the fact that he was even making any noise at all. Someone heavy sat on his broken leg and his vision went black for a split second as he almost fainted. A hand clamped over his mouth and he bit it, tasting blood, as one by one his other limbs were tamed and tamped down.

“Shut up, man. Calm down!” It was the man whose blood was trickling slowly down the back of his throat, his hand still in place despite what must be considerable pain. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

To that, Zarbon let out an angry sounding moan; the desire to form words was there but unfortunately the hand clamped in his jaw prevented that entirely.

“Get a light over here!” the man called, “I want to see his face.” And then, to Zarbon, he said, “If you promise to stop screeching, I’ll take my hand away. Promise?”

“Hn,” Zarbon grunted, and it must have been the correct response because he quickly found he could work his jaw again. “Not here to hurt me, huh?” he hissed, venomously, as soon as he was able. “Tell your fat fucking comrades to get off me!”

“Sorry, can’t do that quite yet,” the man replied, sounding amused. Whoever was on Zarbon’s broken leg shifted a little, obviously in retaliation, and Zarbon held in a scream as the bones were jarred again. Tears clouded his eyes and he blinked them away as light suddenly flooded his face and his captors chattered excitedly to each other. “Well praise be,” said the leader, he of the injured hand, in the same sort of booming voice of the storytellers from Zarbon’s youth, “it really is you.”

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Mental picture of the day: Frieza sipping wine in his bubble bath. Maybe with a few scented candles scattered around. You’re welcome.

Any comments/criticisms/random thoughts will be appreciated!


	39. Chapter 39

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: If you’ll recall, Orly is the voice of the radio broadcast that the Red Station crew was listening to last chapter. Don’t wrack your brains trying to remember him from canon; I made him up.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Orly was much younger than most people expected him to be, with close cropped blonde hair and a nose that had obviously been broken a few times before. He looked about twenty-two, if his species aged like most, which actually didn’t surprise Zarbon very much; it was always the young ones who were the boldest. Those who had nothing to lose, those who had not yet lost the feeling of immortality that comes with youth. Zarbon himself had been that way once, young and stupid and power-drunk, and as a result he’d turned his back on everything dear and ended up in Frieza’s bed.

                “Sorry again for roughin’ you up, man,” Orly was saying, as he sat down on the bench, two steaming mugs in his hands. Zarbon winced as he saw the bandage wrapped around the young man’s palm. He felt as though he should apologize for the bite, but how was he to know he was being attacked by friends? Besides, they’d hurt him first. What had they been thinking, tracking an injured, newly escaped man in the dark, without first announcing their intentions?

                “Didn’t hurt me much more than I already was,” Zarbon said, deciding to settle himself in the middle.

                “Here,” Orly handed one of his mugs to Zarbon, “careful though, it’s hot.” He blew on over the surface of his own drink and took a sip, before sighing beatifically. “Ahh, that’s the stuff.” He stretched out long legs and shifted, groaning. It had started to rain on the way back to their transport and the whole group was soaked to the bone. Orly had given up his blanket to Zarbon, who’d begun shivering so violently that they feared he might actually do himself harm from it. “If we’d known about the broken bones...” he trailed off apologetically, and reached out to steady Zarbon’s jittering hand as he tried to bring the cup to his lips. “Well anyway, busted up or not, you sure gave us a run for our money.” Orly grinned and pointed to a tough looking brute of a man, wrapped in his own blanket and nursing his own mug. “You knocked the wind right out of Runey over there, with that kick you gave him.”

                “Oh, is that who I hit?” Zarbon didn’t quite know whether he should apologize for the thrashing, or give them all a good tongue lashing for the damage he’d incurred. “Thought I’d sent the bone through my flesh, it hurt so much.”

                “Eesh,” was Orly’s only reply, as he squirmed uncomfortably on the bench. “I still can’t believe you walked that far...injured as you are.” Zarbon nearly laughed aloud. He’d seen worse, known men who’d fought one handed while the other held their innards in. Walking on a few broken bones was no major feat but he decided not to say so, to this idealistic young man. Honestly, he wondered if Orly had yet to see the rough side of a battle.

                “What else was I to do?” Zarbon shrugged his shoulders beneath the piled blankets and took a sip, grateful for Orly’s steadying hand on the mug. “I couldn’t very well stay there and,” he paused awkwardly, well aware that while he wasn’t part of the empire any more, he wasn’t exactly certain he’d be welcomed here with open arms.

                “And let Frieza’s men find you?” Orly finished for him, and Zarbon was jealous of the ease with which the man spoke, and the obvious comfort he felt in his own skin. “No, you couldn’t do that. Man, you’re one tough son of a bitch, though. Glad you’re on our side. I almost didn’t believe it when I heard you’d been arrested as a traitor. Oh, we had a team pick up your ship, by the way,” he said offhandedly, and then continued talking as though the statement was perfectly in place, “But then I saw the pictures and I was convinced.”

                “Pictures?” Zarbon felt his stomach drop, and he set his mug down the bench beside him, afraid he might drop it too.

                “Yes, Frieza had them broadcast...from you time in captivity so that people would recognize you.” Orly stood, crossed the room in three strides, stooping to dig in a file cabinet before coming back with a small stack of computer printouts. On each one was a different photo of Zarbon, with his shaggy, chopped and cropped hair and a bruised, puffy face that hardly looked a thing like what he was used to seeing in the mirror.

                “I’m sorry, oh man.” Orly caught the pictures just as they slid from Zarbon’s trembling fingers, jumping up to stow them away again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...I shouldn’t have...” He thrust his hands through his hair and stood, helplessly sputtering half-formed apologies. “You look pale, I should call Tamson. He’s our medic.”

                “Please don’t,” Zarbon whispered, hugging the blanket a little tighter around himself. “It’s...I...a shock. To see that. Come sit down again. I’m alright. Really, I am,” he insisted.

                “I’m really sorry,” Orly repeated, as he sat gingerly down beside Zarbon once more, as though afraid to shake the bench for fear of jarring its occupant. “If there’s anything I can do...”

                “Have you anyone who gives a decent haircut, where we’re going?” Zarbon asked, hiking the blanket a little higher around his ears. “It’s only that it’s kind of embarrassing, to be walking around like this.”

                “Sure, I guess,” Orly stuttered in surprise and watched Zarbon hunch with curious eyes, “but maybe we’ll see to your leg and all that, first.”

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                Bulma clamped the ragged edge of her thumbnail between her teeth, her eyes darting from the screen image to the man before the camera, and back again. Beside her, her father fiddled with the controls, minutely adjusting the colour so that Vegeta did not appear so pale in the harsh lighting of the gravity room. He tried not to tinker too much or too fast; the feed was going out live, despite Bulma’s protestations that they should edit and perfect it before transmitting it across the universe. Vegeta had insisted upon a live broadcast, claiming it would be more authentic that way. Seeing him now, she supposed that this was his way of effectively taking control of the message so that it came from him and him alone. He had already denied her the chance to script his words and now she cringed in fear, wondering if the full Vegeta impact would have the opposite effect of what he’d intended. The man on camera now was intense and frightening. He had flat out refused her suggestion to show sentimentality and kindness, and she worried that his cold, businesslike demeanour might scare potential allies away from the cause. Then again, even with his awful reputation and history, people were flocking to them at a rate that none of them had expected. Chichi had spent a lot of time on the radios in the past week, and reports of defections and climbing resistance numbers were rampant. Several cells had already made appeals to their fellows for help in feeding and outfitting their suddenly swollen ranks.

                “That is all,” Vegeta was saying into the camera. “The choice is yours.” He looked away from the lens and nodded at Bulma; it was her cue to shut the system down and begin the post-broadcast security measures that would ensure their safety.

                “Okay,” she called over, and he slid with obvious relief from the stool, “we’re done.” Behind her, Nappa, Radditz and Gohan shuffled nervously, not sure if they were allowed to act normally again – their good behaviour during the recording had been extracted only with death threats from the prince. Puar, standing beside Radditz, elbowed the big saiyan as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a child who badly needs the washroom.

                “You may resume your idiocy now,” Vegeta said as he walked past the gathered group without stopping. They could feel the tension positively rolling off of him, and wisely stayed still and quiet. “I will be training alone for the next hour,” he continued, and the air crackled with electricity as a sudden golden glow surrounded him. “The three of you will join me after that.”

                “Urgh, I hate it when you do that!” Bulma yelled at his retreating form as she tried to smooth the static from her hair with little success. He didn’t apologize, of course, and nor did he look back; she hadn’t really expected him to.

                “Sooo...what do we do now?” Puar asked, looking around at the gathered group, though his question was really directed at Bulma. “Now that it’s out there, I mean.”

                “We keep going, I guess,” Bulma said, shrugging as her hands gave up on her flyaway locks. “We keep our course to Tarble’s planet and we listen to the radio channels to see what effect Vegeta’s announcement had. I think we should probably set up a round the clock listening schedule.”

                “Dibs out on the next few overnights.” Chichi put her hand up and added, blushing, “Goku comes out of the regen tank tomorrow.”

                “Yes, yes, little brother will need twenty four hour...ahhh, nursing.” Radditz leered at his sister in law, waggling bushy eyebrows, and Puar elbowed him again.

                “I’ll take the first midnight shift,” the shapeshifter volunteered, cocking an eyebrow up at Radditz’s pouting face as though to say _take that_. He was quickly learning the best ways in which to influence his saiyan mate, and he didn’t feel the slightest bit bad about it. Radditz was a bully, and Puar was just evening out the playing field.

                “I wouldn’t mind a late night or two either,” Tien put in, and beside him Piccolo shrugged and offered himself as well, though adding that someone would need to teach him how to use the communications console.

                “Okay, okay,” Bulma waved her hands in front of herself, “everybody shut up before I lose track of all this.” She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and sketched a quick table, writing the hours of the day on one side, with blank squares for names on the other. “This one’s for today. I’ll do a few more days after, but go ahead and put yourself down for whatever times and however many hours you think you can handle. I don’t want to see any of you skimping out.” She eyed Roshi and Oolong, then turned her glare on Radditz and Nappa. “But don’t be a hero either, guys. If you can’t handle midnight to three,” she said to Tien, who was pencilling himself down for just that, “then don’t sign up.”

                “Okay, okay Bulma,” Krillin took the pen from Tien and put himself down for two hours early in the morning. “Time to drop the Army General shtick.”

                “Ha ha, Krillin,” Bulma intoned sarcastically and rolled her eyes. “I know what happens when nobody gives instructions to this bunch. Chaos.”

                “Miss Bulma,” there was a tug on her sweater from behind, and she turned to see Dende stepping shyly back, dropping his eyes to the floor, “I would like to add my name as well.”

                “Master Dende,” one of the oldest looking Nameks said, censoriously, before he stopped himself. Bulma watched Dende’s shoulders slump, his entire body radiating disappointment.

                “Sure!” she said brightly, snatching the pen from Krillin before the nameks could protest further, and placing it in Dende’s small green hand with exaggerated care. He looked up at her in surprise, as though to ask if it was really, truly okay, and she nodded encouragingly. Dende steeled his shoulders, resolutely not looking at the small group of gathered nameks, so patently disapproving, and put himself down for an hour. It wasn’t much, he knew, but it was a stand.

                “It is our duty to help these people in any way possible, as they have helped us,” Dende said, pointedly. He straightened his back, trying to channel as much of Vegeta’s prideful pose as he could muster. That was a man whose body language demanded respect. Now if only the others hadn’t moved in the way of the door, he might have been able to stride out without looking at them in classic Vegeta style.

                “Good on you, little Guru!” Radditz slapped Dende on the back encouragingly, knocking the breath out of the little guy and sending him stumbling a few steps into Gohan, who caught him easily and set him on his feet.

                “Radditz!” Bulma and Puar shouted at the same time, as the nameks all gasped in horror.

                “Oh...haha. Sorry ‘bout that, little guy.” Radditz winced and scratched the back of his head in embarrassment, the way his brother always did. He reached down and patted Dende awkwardly on the head, as gently as one might a newborn.

                “N..no harm done,” Dende said, meekly, as he straightened his robes. So much for dignified leadership. A purple blush stained his cheeks and he scuttled from the room, still clutching Bulma’s pen in his little fist. The nameks filed soberly out behind him, though the last two to leave stopped and waited while Bulma fished out another pen, hesitantly signing their names for an hour each.

                “Thank you,” Bulma said sincerely, and they both ducked their heads shyly.

                “Whatever has happened,” said the bolder of the two, “Dende is our leader now, imbued with the spirit of our beloved Guru. This whole business,” he gestured to Bulma and the gathered others, as well as the ship around them, “is new for us. Dangerous.”

                “Frightening,” the second namek put in, when his companion paused.

                “A far cry from what we were doing with Guru” the first continued, nodding along with his friend. “But I believe, as does Dende, that this is what he would have wanted. For us to work alongside you.” He paused, frowning, as the quiet one tugged at his sleeve. “We should go now. The others are stiff, set in their ways. Our young lord will need someone in his corner.” With that, they turned and left. Bulma looked at the sign-up sheet, which read, in neatly written standard, Bassoon and Fife. She wondered who was who.

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                Bassoon, as it turned out, was right. He and Fife followed quickly after the others, but little Dende was already backed into a corner by the time they arrived at Oboe and Tambourine’s bedroom, which was where they most often convened when privacy was desired. Traditionally their meetings should have been held in Dende’s lodgings, but some of the elder members balked at the idea of holding council in a space shared by a saiyan. Dende had acquiesced without comment, which Bassoon felt was the child’s first mistake. He’d given in too early, too easily, and now the older nameks were trampling all over the boy as though they were running the show. Oboe, especially, was the worst. He was the oldest of the remaining nameks and the shock on his face when Dende had been named Guru’s successor had been obvious. That wasn’t to say that he was bitter, exactly, or out to undermine the boy. Like his fellows he trusted Guru and would have done anything within his power to see the old sage’s wishes carried out, even if that included entrusting his future to a boy several centuries younger than himself. Oboe’s problem was that he didn’t exactly feel Dende was capable of making the important decisions on his own; he saw his own obstinacy and bull-headedness as _helpful guidance_.

                “That,” Oboe was saying, just as Bassoon and Fife walked in, “was an absolute travesty!” He put his hand to his chest in a heartfelt gesture. “An insult to Guru’s memory. The fact that you allowed it to go on...that you suggested it, in the first place!” He threw his hands up in the air, and around him the others muttered in low voices. Dende stood with his shoulders hunched, appearing to sink into himself more and more with each word from Oboe’s mouth.

                “I...” he began timidly, and then said nothing more, simply shut his mouth tight.

                “I saw no problem with it,” Bassoon spoke up, threading through the small crowd to stand beside Dende. Fife, ever the quiet one, took up position on Dende’s other side, nodding along as Bassoon spoke.

                “You mean to tell me,” Oboe began, “that you have no problem with the way in which our beloved Guru’s demise was used by that murderous, violent, despicable _saiyan_ as a...a publicity stunt?” His voice rose with each word, but Bassoon was used to Oboe’s flights of self-importance, and stood tall, arms crossed over his chest.

                “Do you forget, Oboe,” he began in the same, condescending tone of voice that the older namek had just used, “that Guru willingly _gave_ his life, his very essence, to that same saiyan? He died to help Vegeta achieve the level of power that can topple Frieza, and now you would accuse him of using Guru’s death as a benefit? Oboe, you are truly foolish,” Bassoon shook his head, “for if you cannot see that that was the point all along, what purpose do your eyes serve?”

                “I know why Guru gave his life,” Oboe snapped, “I may be old, but I am not blind Bassoon, and Guru did not die to become some martyr in service of that man!”

                “Yes,” Dende said quietly, and he almost went unheard, chin buried in his chest as it was, “he did.” When the muttering ceased and the nameks grew quiet, Dende looked up and around the room at the band of old men who were supposed to follow him, trust him. Not one of them had lived less than a century and here he was, on the underside of a decade, telling them what was what. A shiver of embarrassment curled in his stomach, and he might have shut his mouth right then and there, had Fife not crouched down on his haunches and looked him straight in the eye.

                “Guru looks out from behind your eyes, little Dende. You might not know it, but he does. Never be afraid to speak his words.”

                “Guru walked this path.” Dende paused, swallowed back his discomfort, and swept the room with his gaze, meeting each man’s eyes for a few seconds before continuing. Vegeta always looked people in the eyes; it was a good trick. “He knew what would come to be, and he chose it anyway.” He blinked back tears, and his little hands fisted at his sides. “How dare you presume to know what he might have been thinking when he did it!” Dende shrieked, surprising even himself with the strength of his voice and the sheer volume of emotion pouring through it. “He died to save us, all of us, not just the nameks, and anything I can to do speed Frieza’s end....” Dende shook, and so did his voice, “the end to this madness...” He choked back a sob and wiped furiously at his face with his sleeves, as tears poured unbidden from his eyes. The saiyan prince never would have cried like this, but Dende found he could not help it. “Guru would have supported Vegeta,” he said with a sniffle, “and so will I. I hereby release all of you from whatever commitment you have made to me. I will hope for your continued support, but I will not demand it. I have no claim on you.”

                “D...Dende...” Bassoon was speechless, but Fife smiled quietly beside the little sage as shocked chatter sprang up among the others.

                “For those of you that would follow me, know that I am not Guru reborn,” Dende continued, “but rather his pupil and chosen successor. Rest assured that I will live out his will, as best as I can.”

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                A little under an hour later, Gohan found a pale, shaky Dende curled up on his bed, clutching his stomach. The garbage can was pulled up beside the bed, and from it wafted the reek of namekian vomit, which really wasn’t the worst Gohan had ever smelled, seeing as it was mostly just water with a bit of greenish-yellow bile mixed in. “You okay?” the saiyan asked, coming over to crouch on the floor by Dende’s head.

                “Think so,” Dende nodded, and winced as his stomach cramped again. “I just got so nervous...” he trailed off, smacking his dry lips and wincing at the sour taste on his tongue.

                “Wait here, I’ll get you some water,” Gohan offered, bouncing out of the room. He couldn’t tarry too long or else he’d be late for training, but he could certainly spare some time for his friend. By the time he got back from the kitchen, Dende was sitting up with his pillow in his lap, and the colour seemed to be returning to his cheeks. He thanked Gohan for the water and sat there uncertainly, taking little sips as Gohan changed into his training gear.

                “Did I do the right thing?” Dende asked suddenly, and his face flushed hotly when Gohan turned to look at him. “Some of the other nameks...the older ones,” he explained, “they think it was disrespectful to allow Vegeta to make that announcement...to use Guru’s death as a call to arms. They said he would not have approved of his name being used as a warcry.”

                “What do you think?” Gohan asked, fishing his boots from the closet floor.

                “I think he would have regretted the necessity, but he trusted Vegeta...some of the others say more than he should have.” Dende couldn’t quite meet Gohan’s eyes when he added that part, knowing as he did the young saiyan’s devotion to his prince. It was a tough line to walk when those he felt most comfortable with were so divided and biased on the issue. Gohan stiffened a little, as Dende had expected, but the saiyan boy kept calm when he asked if all of the nameks were in agreement. “Bassoon and Fife are behind me...and I think there are others who are not sure what to think. Swayable. Oboe makes a good case though, and he is the eldest among us.”

                “I wonder what Mr. Piccolo might say,” Gohan wondered aloud, “and if his opinion would matter.”

                “Not likely,” Dende sighed. “He is a namek, yes, but he is unknown to us.”

                “Well, maybe you could talk to him anyway.  You know, half of Mr. Piccolo used to be a god; the guardian of Earth. He was over a thousand years old, my dad told me.” Gohan pulled on his boots. “Most of the time he acts like Piccolo, but sometimes Kami slips through. He might have some good advice. Why don’t you come down to the training rooms with me?” Gohan suggested, with a shrug. “Sometimes Mr. Piccolo comes to train with us saiyans. Maybe you’ll get to talk to him.”

                “Yeah, okay.” Dende nodded and hopped off the bed, feeling just a little bit better. He might not have the opportunity or the courage to talk to Piccolo, but anything was better than sitting here on his bed, feeling sick to his stomach at the things that had been said in the namekian conference. Guru had told him to lead them, and he’d gone and told them, in fancier words, to either fall in line or get lost. It was exactly the sort of thing Vegeta would have done – except for the fancy words part – but he worried whether Guru would have disapproved. The old sage had been famed for his patience and kindness, and Dende was getting off to a less than saintly start as new elder of the remaining nameks. It was funny though – he’d felt more confidence in himself and his abilities in that half-minute of being Vegeta than he had in weeks of trying to live up to Guru.

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Zarbon rubbed forlornly at his shorn scalp, still not used to the feel of it even though it had been a full week since his haircut. Frieza’s handiwork had left his mane completely unsalvageable, long in some spots, near bald in others, he’d had no choice but to have it all buzzed to the same length and he’d never felt more naked in his life. As humiliating as it was to admit, he’d nearly broken into tears in the barber’s chair, watching the last straggles and snippets of his hair fall to the floor. The only thing that had kept the waterworks at bay was Orly’s presence and Zarbon’s intense desire not to shame himself in front of the young resistance leader. Here was a man who, for whatever misguided reason, looked up to him, called him a hero and celebrated his safe delivery into the resistance’s ranks. Zarbon lived in fear of destroying this image of himself; the only positive thing in his life at the moment.

“Quit rubbing it or it’ll never grow back,” Orly laughed, coming up behind Zarbon’s chair. He leaned over, letting the backrest take the weight of his chest, and ran a single finger from the crown of Zarbon’s skull down to the base of his hairline. “Ahh, sorry,” Orly stepped back and raised his hands as Zarbon winced and ducked forward, “didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s...okay.” Zarbon craned his neck around to see the young man looking at him with concern, though it was several minutes before he could convince his back to uncurl itself and straighten up once more. The touch had done more than to startle him; it had surprised and alarmed him. Disconcerted him. His heart was racing and his palms were sweating; it was as though Frieza was behind him, and not Orly, friend and comrade. “I’m okay,” he said, almost as much to reassure himself as to set Orly at ease. He reached up with searching fingers, automatically grasping for the braid that wasn’t there, longing to twine his fingers in its soft, silky tip. He cursed beneath his breath and squeezed his eyes shut tight for a few seconds as he forced his hand back down to rest in his lap. He’d thought it would be so easy, once he was out from Frieza’s thumb.

No, not easy. Easy was definitely not the right word. He’d known the life would be tough, the day to day existence difficult. That was no surprise and in ways it was actually comforting. The difficulty lay in his mind, in the skittishness and nervous tendencies that the years under Frieza had bred in him. The loss of his hair, his security blanket, seemed to have sucked all of the confidence out of him and now that he was free – well and truly away from his master – he seemed to spend every moment looking over his shoulder for fear that the little monster would rise out of the shadows to drag him screaming back. Worse than his time in captivity, almost, because at least there he hadn’t the taste of freedom to make him think of how miserable he was.

“Hey man,” Orly paused awkwardly, reaching forward and then stopping himself, “I know it’s rough. I won’t touch you again.” He twiddled his fingers, tapping them nervously against his thighs, and averted his gaze. “Even if I might want to.”

Zarbon stared dumbly, suddenly frozen in place by this candid admission. Orly’s dark skin grew ruddier across his nose and cheekbones the longer Zarbon looked, and neither one of them said anything for much longer than was comfortable. “I don’t know what to say,” the green man finally broke the silence, turning his chair fully around so that they faced each other.

“I’m sorry, that was too forward of me,” Orly dug a hand through the blonde fuzz of his hair, stopping to palm the back of his head in a nervous gesture. “It’s only that...I’ve seen pictures of you. All my life I thought you...I felt guilty because...but now you’re on our side,” he finished brokenly, his voice lilting with hope at the end as though his puppy dog eyes just might convince Zarbon to go to bed with him.

“I understand,” Zarbon said curtly, and he did. He was used to being ogled, hit on, propositioned and assumed to be something he was not. His pretty face drew people in, though he hardly doubted that someone young and handsome like Orly would want him so much if he happened to see Zarbon transform.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”

“It’s okay. Really, it is,” Zarbon interrupted, trying to be kind. He supposed it was flattering that someone might want him, even in this hairless state, but part of him felt the urge to unleash the ugly side of himself, then and there, just to see the boy’s reaction. The majority of his brain was much too prideful, much too vain, to transform unnecessarily. He couldn’t even imagine how hideous he would be, in that froglike state and with no hair, to boot.

“Oi, oi! Orly, everybody! Get yer asses in here now!” A big, apelike man whom Zarbon did not know was hanging in the doorway, gesturing wildly with one hand. “Come on, important shit is going down!” he shouted, and Zarbon and Orly could see others running past the open door, shouting and muttering to each other as they went. Orly sprang forward and Zarbon got up too, a moment later. His delay cost him, however, and he found that by the time he reached the hallway, Orly had already moved far ahead and was nearly lost in the crush of people. Hugging himself and trying not to get too close to the strangers jostling around him, Zarbon followed, keeping Orly’s bright head in view. He supposed it wouldn’t really matter if he lost sight of the younger man – they were both just following the crowd and would end up at the same place anyway – but he felt a bit better knowing that someone he trusted was at least close. He really hadn’t met many people in the colony yet and considering his past, he still felt a little awkward among them.

Zarbon didn’t know it till he got there, but the mob’s destination was the Circle – a big, open room used for gatherings and meetings within this rebel cell. Orly had stopped and was waiting for him inside the door. Together, they moved forward through the throng of bodies, closer to the front where a large screen had been set up.

“It went out live, just a little bit ago, but Zavi managed to get all but the first minute or so,” someone was saying to Orly as Zarbon scanned the crowd for any of the few familiar faces he knew. Runey, one of the men from his first encounter with this band, was up by the projection screen, keeping the curious mass of people back as someone Zarbon didn’t recognize fiddled with some cables. Across the room to his right, there was a small gathering of a few others he’d been introduced to, but the sheer number of strangers around him surprised Zarbon. He hadn’t realized this base was so big, and part of him wondered if he’d been intentionally kept in the dark. The freedom fighters of the universe had not survived so long on blind trust and he was sure that many of the men and women of this chapter would not share Orly’s easy conviction that Zarbon was on their side.

“What’s all this about?” someone shouted, and the cry was taken up and repeated several times through the gathering. The sense of unrest, unease, and nervousness grew stronger with each second they were made to wait, crammed into the Circle like cattle. If Zarbon had learned anything in his time here so far, it was that resistance members did not like to be confined. This trait contrasted sharply with their tendencies toward secrecy, their need of privacy. They grew jumpy in rooms without multiple exits, but even more so if those exits were not firmly shut.

“Vengeance,” Runey shouted back from the front, and a sudden stillness shot out through the crowd as everyone turned to focus on the big man – many with mouths half open in interrupted conversation. Seconds later, the projector jogged into being and the crowd erupted into hushed murmurs and whispers as Vegeta’s face appeared, a larger than life still on the ten foot screen. Runey clapped the cable-fiddler on the back and they nodded briefly at each other before stepping out of the way as someone in the background set the video to play.

“I will not waste your time,” Vegeta said, and it was plain that Zavi, who’d managed to record the live feed, had only missed the first little bit – whatever minor introduction Vegeta might have given himself.  Zarbon wondered if the prince had managed to be humble, or whether he’d started with a self-important spiel about being saiyan royalty. Judging by the grim look on his face, he hadn’t said much. “Guru is dead,” Vegeta continued, bluntly, and all around the room Zarbon saw faces fall, hopes crumble. The old sage had long been a cornerstone of the entire movement; there was no one among them who had not respected the great old namek. “The killing blow was struck by Captain Ginyu, who had been posing as one of Guru’s trusted disciples. Consider all information sent to or from Guru’s camp as potentially contaminated and all who shared a close relationship with the namek called Nail are suspect.”

“Daaasa Raiji,” Orly whispered in the language of his own people, voice hoarse, and Zarbon caught himself wondering what sort of god it was that Orly’s people prayed to. He put the thought aside quickly, all curiosity lost in the effort to attend to the screen.

“In your grief and mourning, take solace in the knowledge that Guru’s death has been avenged. Ginyu is dead by my hand, his necked snapped and his body put to space without ceremony or rites.” Vegeta’s voice held little emotion, but at this last statement, a brief cheer went up from the gathered listeners. They might have come from a hundred different planets, a hundred different cultures, but the importance of death rituals, wildly varying as they might be, was universal. To be cast off without them was a fate they felt that Ginyu deserved.

“May his frozen corpse wander the void for all eternity,” Orly muttered venomously.

“The fight is not over, however,” Vegeta continued on, oblivious to the fervour he was creating in this crowd. “Now is not the time to sit back, to cower and let someone else do it. Frieza’s most powerful are dying and defecting,” Vegeta stuck his chin out proudly, and Zarbon felt eyes sliding his way, briefly, before they returned to the idol on the screen. “Now is the time to rally and to fight, to take back in blood everything the tyrant has taken from us.”

There was something different about Vegeta, Zarbon thought as he watched, transfixed like the crowd around him. Something not quite tangible, not quite visible, but there all the same. Perhaps it was the set of his jaw, the wild arch of his black hair, or the depth of his eyes. No. Physically, the prince had not changed. A subtle sort of pride ran through him, so different from the posturing, arrogant boy Zarbon had last seen. There was strength in his voice, a certainty that had never been there before as the runty saiyan had tried to prove, through brute strength and a loud voice, that he was there, he was worth it. _Fear me_ , the old Vegeta would demand, with a stomp of his booted foot, _worship me_. This Vegeta had no need to speak the words. His very bearing commanded it, inspired it in the viewer and Zarbon found he was no exception. He was chilled to the bone.

Orly grasped his hand, tightly, and he did not protest.

“Stand now and stand hard behind me,” Vegeta glared through the camera, as though willing them all to do his bidding, “and Guru’s death will not be in vain. Or lie back, cower in your hovels and call yourselves lucky to be alive. Live in fear of who will be next, what injustice, what _shame_ ,” he spat the word, “will be soon foisted upon you. Think hard and think well; Frieza’s end is coming, and those on his side will not live long after, I promise you that. That is all. The choice is yours.” The prince was silent, his eyes remaining focused on the camera for a few moments before they shifted somewhere offscreen and he nodded once, slowly. The feed cut out then, and the Circle exploded in a wave of chatter, deafening in contrast to the silence that had gripped the room only moments before.

Here it was, the moment the universe had been waiting for. The beginning of Frieza’s end, the dawn of something new, something better. Who would have thought, Zarbon mused, that the brat prince, the bane of his existence for so many years, would be its herald?

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That’s all for today, folks. Thanks for reading, and please consider leaving a review. I’d love to hear your thoughts!


	40. Chapter 40

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: 

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PRESENT DAY

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                Goku looked sheepishly at his wife as she handed him a towel, and studiously avoided Sixteen hovering in the background, waiting to perform his tests. Gohan and Radditz were peeking in the open doorway, having been banished from the infirmary for rowdiness, which was mostly Radditz’s fault. Goku could feel Nappa and Vegeta in the hallway beyond, both of their power levels calm and at rest. It was a little embarrassing, he found, to come out of the tank all naked and wet like a new baby, with a crowd hanging around. He wrapped the towel around his waist, ignoring the fact that he needed to dry the rest of himself, too. Really, he would have preferred a quick shower to get the remaining gel off of himself, but it appeared he would not get that right away. Chichi scoffed and grabbed another towel, standing on her tiptoes to rub vigorously at his hair. Obligingly, he stooped a little lower for her and closed his eyes in pleasure, recalling the way she used to dry him off after a bath together, back on Earth.

                “Damn stuff is running all over the place,” she muttered, briskly rubbing down his torso and arms, which were indeed streaked with rivulets of the viscous liquid, running slowly down his skin to land on the floor in a soft pattering of drops.

                “A few quick tests, Goku, if you don’t mind,” Sixteen interrupted, gesturing toward the examination bench.

                “Needles?” Goku asked, and Chichi rolled her eyes.

                “None,” Sixteen replied, spreading a hand to indicate the array of instruments he would be using. After a quick examination in which he determined that none of them looked too sinister, Goku hopped up onto the table, careful to make sure his towel didn’t slip. He waited, trying his best not to fidget, as the big android picked up a stethoscope and listened to his heart for a few moments. His blood pressure was checked, and so were his basic reflexes. He squirmed as several electrodes were taped to his body and hooked up to some sort of machine with several red and black cables, for even as Sixteen explained that he would not feel a thing, Goku kept expecting a big electric jolt through his body, like when he’d touched some exposed wires in one of Bulma’s machines. After an uneventful minute of laying there and breathing, Sixteen unhooked all the cables and made a note on Goku’s medical chart. The removal of the sticky electrodes was more noticeable than whatever the machine had done to him.

                “What was that?” he asked, once he was allowed to sit up again.

                “Electrocardiogram,” Sixteen replied, and when Goku’s eyes bugged out, trying to make sense of the seven-syllable nightmare, he explained further. “It measures the electrical signals that are travelling through your heart. It is a way to tell if there are any irregularities in your heart function. Because I do not have a database of knowledge on saiyan physiology, I have asked the other three adult saiyans to undergo the same tests. I will compare their results to yours and hopefully gain some knowledge as to what might be normal to someone of your species. As such, I cannot tell you yet if these results,” he tapped the display screen, where a series of wobbly lines resided, “are normal or not. I will let you know of my findings.”

                “Oh, okay.” Goku hoped he wouldn’t be tested later; he’d not really paid careful attention to Sixteen’s answer. “Can I go now?”

                “Yes, we are done for now.” Sixteen turned away and began to gather his instruments for sterilization as Goku slid off the table, the floor cold on his bare feet. “Please do not strain yourself for the time being.”

                “I need a shower,” he said, mincing across the room toward his wife. “I feel sticky. Come wash my back?” he asked, hopefully.

                “Of course,” she nodded, though Goku was not blind enough to notice the wincing glance she cast in Sixteen’s direction before she led him away. He looked back to see the android’s tall form hunched over the autoclave and wondered if a few electrodes and mallets really needed to be so carefully sterilized, or if the metal man was just looking for a distraction. He stiffened and moved a little closer to Chichi as a sudden wave of uncharacteristic possessiveness swept through him. “He’s been wracking his brain, trying to figure out what happened to you, Goku,” Chichi said, and of course that made him feel just a bit guilty. Not enough to stop hovering over her petite form, but he was filled with enough shame to stop and remind himself that the android was Chichi’s friend; someone who’d helped to keep her spirits up in the wake of the terrible tragedy, and who’d never touched any of her lady parts.

To his knowledge.

He believed Chichi when she said that nothing had ever actually happened between them, he really did. But the blush on her cheeks and the note of strain in her voice said that there was something she was not telling him, and he couldn’t help but wonder what that was. For her part, Chichi had never told him about her almost-encounter with the big fellow; the memory was still too humiliating to speak of.

To distract himself, Goku stretched and flexed his newly healed limbs as they walked, already feeling the itch to hit the training mat again. He wondered how much of a fit Chichi would throw if he snuck out later for a match with Gohan or Piccolo.

“Your place or mine?” he asked, grinning at her as they stopped outside the washrooms.

                She gave him a squinty-eyed look and said, “Mine, definitely,” as she led him into the ladies’ room, quickly calling out to make sure none of her female shipmates were inside. “Boy bathrooms always smell like pee. Go get a stall warmed up. I’m going to find some paper and stick a sign on the door so the others know you’re in here.”

                “Just lock it,” Goku grinned, catching her by the hand and tugging her back against him as she made to leave. “The other girls can suffer through the pee bathroom for an hour or two.”

                “Lose the towel,” she returned coyly, flipping the bolt before reaching out to let her hair down from its customary knot, “and we have a deal.”

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Krillin led a rich fantasy life – a man without a partner for so long had to, if he hoped to retain his sanity – but nothing in all his imaginings could have prepared him for the sight he found in the kitchen that morning. When he first saw the woman, naked and dripping wet, he thought he might be dreaming. He dropped his mug of water in open-mouthed shock and the crash of the porcelain shattering on the floor startled the nubile goddess, alerting her to his presence. It was only as he stood staring, lips gaping like a fish, with the water on the floor seeping into his socks, that he realized he was awake. There really was a naked blonde sitting bare-assed at the kitchen table, staring right back at him with no hint of embarrassment in her icy gaze.

“Umm...hi,” Krillin croaked out, making no move to escape the puddle at his feet.

“Hello,” she replied, in a voice like silk over steel, and at the exact same time a masculine voice said the very same thing. Krillin craned his neck to the right, only just noticing the strange man by the counter, also clad in his birthday suit and sodden from head to toe. They both stared at him with identical blue eyes, hardly blinking. In unison, they cocked their heads to the side and continued to watch his every move.

“Who...are you?” Krillin stammered, his face going beet red as he caught himself staring at the woman’s breasts. It was a long time since he’d seen breasts, live and in the flesh, and he had to admit that hers were particularly nice ones. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she didn’t say anything, and her expression didn’t change.

“I am Seventeen,” said the man, brushing a sopping strand of the deepest black hair from his forehead.

“I am Eighteen,” said the woman, and her voice mirrored his exactly but for the higher pitch. She remained still, however, as her hair was already tucked behind her ears and did not need adjusting.

Bulma had not exactly gotten around to telling the rest of Red Station’s inhabitants about the twins, so as shocking as it was for Krillin to find these two exhibitionists in the kitchen, it was doubly so to learn that they were androids – must be, with names like those. It was then that he realized their eyes were not only identical to each other’s, but also to Sixteen’s, and he felt a bit dumb for not seeing it sooner. Knowing didn’t make much of a difference to him though; he still had no idea what to do about it. Luckily for him, Bulma herself just happened to be shuffling in, in hopes of a cup of coffee. She didn’t have a mug to drop, but judging by the look on her face, she would have added to Krillin’s mess if she could have.

“Oh,” was all she said, as she stopped still in the doorway, easily seeing the twins over Krillin’s head. “You’re awake,” she added, after a moment of stunned silence in which those piercing gazed switched focus to the woman they perceived as their creator.

“Mother,” Eighteen said, standing up, and Krillin also caught sight of the first vagina he’d seen in almost four years. It looked like it was probably pretty nice, too.

“M...mother?” Bulma stammered in surprise, finally gathering some wits and stepping into the kitchen.

“Are we mistaken?” Seventeen asked. “Our sensors picked you up, while we were growing.”

“Our brother told us that you would be our mother,” Eighteen added, with as much insistence as such a flat voice could muster. “We heard him.”

“Oh my god, you mean you were aware?” Bulma asked, wonder threading through her voice and distracting her from the shock of both their sudden wakefulness and their nudity. Krillin coughed from the doorway and she looked at his red face, her own cheeks pinkening as he reminded her of their predicament. Distractedly, she grabbed some tea towels from a drawer, handing one to Seventeen and two to Eighteen. “Here. To, ah, cover your...parts.” She bade them sit once more and made them put a towel each in their laps. Krillin watched them exchange a puzzled look as Bulma instructed Eighteen to tuck one tea towel beneath her armpits, to cover up her exposed chest. He prayed that Chichi wouldn’t show up any time soon. She would not appreciate naked butts on the kitchen upholstery.

“Bulma,” he prompted, but she ignored him and turned her attention toward the twins.

“So you were aware in there? For how long?”

“Quite some time,” they answered in unison, thoroughly creeping Krillin out. He was still in the doorway, not really sure whether to stay or go, or maybe continue trying to urge Bulma into taking the new androids somewhere else if they were going to continue in their state of undress. Or maybe he’d just leave her to deal with it – she was obviously not as surprised by this turn of events as he was – and go wank in the shower for a bit.

The gentleman in Krillin won out, however, and he coughed again, purposefully, and asked Bulma whether he should maybe go and find some clothes for the newest additions to Red Station.

“Ohmygod,” she gasped, as though she’d only just remembered that they were covered only by scanty old tea-towels. “I’m such an airhead. I’ll go find some things. Can you stay here with them?” She was already up and out of her chair, halfway past him by the time she finished her request. Krillin nodded, for he could do little else under the circumstances, and turned awkwardly toward the twins.

“My name is Krillin,” he said, stepping toward the table and wondering if he should offer his hand to shake. He thought better of it when he realized that Eighteen might dislodge her top towel. Krillin pulled out a chair and sat down instead. “It’s very nice to meet you.” He lapsed into silence after that, not knowing what to say or do. The twins were not exactly talkative either, so the three of them simply sat staring at each other, waiting for Bulma to get back. Krillin prayed she would return before someone else walked in and saw him like this.

As luck would have it, Bulma was quick about her task and was back in the kitchen in less than ten minutes, her arms laden with clothing. “I’m sorry,” she was apologizing to Eighteen as she handed her a simple wrap dress, “I think we’re about the same height, you’re maybe a bit taller, but it might bag a bit on your figure. I grabbed this one so you can cinch it up.” Krillin averted his eyes as Eighteen stood and let her towels drop before slipping into the dress. Bulma handed Seventeen a pair of shorts and a t-shirt Krillin recognized as belonging to Vegeta. “These will have to do for the moment, until we can get something else that fits properly.” Vegeta’s shirt hung on Seventeen’s scarecrow frame, and even with the belt tied tightly, Eighteen had no hope of filling out the curves in Bulma’s dress. “Also, underpants.”

“Well, we do need to do a supply run some time soonish. Some quick clothes shopping won’t take long,” Krillin offered. Well, not as long as it’s not you or your mom taking them, he thought but wisely did not say aloud. The androids watched them both, neither looking at that moment as though they particularly cared about clothing. Krillin did not much care how they were dressed either, as long as they were dressed. He assumed the rest of the inhabitants of Red Station would probably feel similarly, once they found out that there were two brand new androids aboard.

“Good idea, Krillin.” Bulma smiled and gestured for the twins to sit again. Outwardly she was pleasant and friendly, but Krillin could tell that she was nervous and he felt some of his irritation diminish. Obviously she must have known about their existence and he couldn’t figure out why she’d neglected to tell anyone about it, but seeing her fidget as she was made him realize that perhaps she just hadn’t known what to do.

“When did you wake up?” Bulma asked them, and Seventeen answered that his tank had popped open at precisely 4:52am. Eighteen’s tank followed two minutes later, at 4:54. Bulma looked surprised by this. “I didn’t know the tanks were triggered to open when you were done,” she said, leaning forward to peer at them. “I thought I would have to let you out.”

“The tanks were pre-programmed,” Eighteen reiterated her brother’s statement, patiently and with no hint of irritation or smugness in her voice.

“Yes...yes,” Bulma was nodding, still not sure what she was supposed to do with the two of them. “Are you hungry? I mean, do you get hungry?” She looked at Krillin, as though he might know, and he simply shrugged in reply.

“Our bodies process food like human bodies do.” Eighteen said, and she also looked at Krillin as though taking some kind of behavioural clue from Bulma. He felt his heart begin to race within his chest, and he knew his cheeks must be getting quite red under her gaze. “We do get hungry, though my brother and I can operate on substantially less fuel than a human body can.” She looked back to Bulma and pointed to a small pile of fruit cores on the counter. “We are not hungry. We ate.”

“Father failed to program us with the knowledge that food tastes so good,” Seventeen added. “I do not think Sixteen is equipped with the ability to taste. He did not tell us this either.”

“How much knowledge are you imprinted with?” Bulma was frowning thoughtfully and Krillin sensed that she might have entered science mode, in which all other real world concerns and questions suddenly dropped into the background. “How much do you know about yourselves, and about us?”

“We know ourselves,” they said together, and then by some unspoken agreement, it was Eighteen alone who continued, “and we know you, Bulma. Mother. We understand the physiological differences between ourselves and humans. Sixteen spoke much of your culture and your lives. He did not speak of this _clothes_ ,” she said the word awkwardly, as though it was from a foreign tongue, “so we do not understand the purpose.”

“There is much you must explain,” Seventeen said, and Eighteen nodded along.

“Okay,” Bulma agreed, and Krillin was surprised to see her channel Chichi in her next statement, “But first, showers. You’re both covered in regeneration fluid and you’re going to be all sticky when you dry.”

“What is showers?” Seventeen asked, and Bulma sighed.

“Oh boy.” She pressed her hand over her eyes for a moment before standing up, with purpose. “Krillin, if you’d be so kind as to assist Seventeen, I will take Eighteen.” She waited for the former monk to nod before she led the way out of the kitchen. The twins followed her like ducklings and Krillin brought up the rear. “A shower, Seventeen,” Bulma corrected, “showers is plural, and it’s how people get clean.”

.

Everyone on Red Station was gathered in the fighting arena, mostly because it was the biggest room aboard, but also partly because Bulma hadn’t been able to convince Vegeta to stop his training for her big announcement. He’d at least come out of the gravity room, but he and the other Saiyans were busy doing katas on the mats while everyone else stood around waiting. Bulma had even managed to gather the nameks, who stood stiffly by the door, as far away from the saiyans as physically possible. That in itself was not at all unusual, but they seemed to be uncomfortable with each other today, and not just with the other occupants of Red. Dende stood squarely in the front and center of the group, the dividing line between the others, who were arranged roughly half and half to his left and right. Bulma made a mental note to catch the boy alone so that she could speak to him and make sure everything was alright. Things had been noticeably awkward with the nameks for the past week and a half, since Vegeta’s broadcast, the tribute to Guru that hadn’t really been so much a tribute as a call to arms. Bulma wasn’t all that surprised by their reaction, although there were a few, more than just Bassoon and Fife, that were showing up for radio watches. So far there was a lot of activity recorded, but luckily no one seemed to have successfully traced the original broadcast back to Red Station.

Sixteen stood beside Bulma, nearly vibrating with suppressed excitement. Neither she nor Krillin had ever seen him so outwardly thrilled as when they’d found him, twins in tow, standing perplexedly in front of the two empty regeneration tanks in Gero’s old lab. The poor android had been completely frozen, on the verge of frantic searching and yet paralyzed with the strength of the emotion that was running through his usually staid circuits. Still though, even Sixteen’s most affected state was not anywhere near the heights that human beings soared to, so the whole reunion slash meeting still would have appeared rather stilted to someone who wasn’t aware of the circumstances. 

“Is that everybody?” Bulma called out over the din, scanning the gathered crowd to make sure that nobody was missing. She and Krillin, along with Sixteen, had discussed just how to go about this introduction business, and while the big-group solution probably wouldn’t be the most serene and gentle way possible, it was also the easiest and it prevented the possibility that someone might run into one or both of the twins alone and mistake them for intruders. Security was still running high and tensions were palpable whenever something odd occurred on board, with everyone worrying that Frieza’s men might descend upon Red at any moment. “Anyway, I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” at this, she glared at the saiyans on the training mat, “but something kind of important has happened and I thought it would be best to tell everyone at once.” Bulma turned to look at Sixteen, and he nodded down at her. “Go get them.” She watched nervously as the android left the room, only to return a moment later with his siblings in tow.

Even the saiyans stopped their training and stared, jaws open with the rest of Red Station’s crew, at the twins. The sense of shock inside the room was plain to be felt. “Who the damn hell are they?” Nappa was the first to speak, and his crass exclamation actually served to break a little of the tension.

“I would like to present to you all, Seventeen and Eighteen,” Bulma said, gesturing to each of the twins in turn. “They are androids, siblings to Sixteen, and have been...ahh, maturing,” she struggled for the right words, “inside of two regeneration tanks in Dr. Gero’s lab. They activated this morning and, well, they’re going to be living here now, I guess.” Bulma shrugged a little helplessly and looked everyone over, trying to evaluate their reactions and feeling like the mother who’s just leaving her children at kindergarten for the first time.

“Holy hell, a single girl!” Master Roshi was the first to break the ice, jabbing a knobbly elbow into Oolong, his constant companion and compatriot in all things perverted. “What’s she programmed for?” he asked eagerly, missing all the warning signs of impending female fury, as usual.

“Yeah, you got all the parts, babe?” Oolong added, standing up straight and trying to suck in his gut as Chichi grew red beside him. Her fingers just itched to wrap around the sturdy handle of a cast iron pan. Bulma sneered and opened her mouth, ready to give the two of them a real tongue lashing, but it was Eighteen who spoke up.

“I am not a computer,” she said flatly, completely missing the innuendo that was being tossed her way, “therefore I am not _programmed_ , as such. Doctor Gero did not live long enough to finish imprinting us with behaviour modules; a similar process though not the same. I comprehend the concept might be difficult for you to understand, so you may continue to use the word if need be. I am designed to act as a living, organic humanoid, to answer your question, and am fully physically functional.”

“Too smart,” Oolong muttered, feeling his... _enthusiasm_...wither as he turned to Roshi.

“Cold as ice,” the old man agreed, sharing a pointed look with his shapeshifting friend.

“Plus her tits could use an upgrade,” Oolong added, earning both himself and the nodding Roshi slaps upside the back of the head from Chichi. Eighteen turned to Bulma, her eyebrows furrowed together ever so slightly.

“Am I deficient?” she asked.

“No!” Krillin blurted out, drawing everyone’s attention to his beet red face and wide, panicked eyes. It was plain that he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “No,” he repeated, a little more in control of his faculties even though his cheeks still burned with embarrassment, “there’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all.” He swallowed deeply, imagined her smiling and blushing prettily, thanking him for his chivalrous words. Instead, she made him feel rather pathetic by turning back to Bulma and asking again for confirmation that she was not somehow lacking.

“No, you’re both perfect.” Bulma smiled warmly at both of the twins and as they stared back with their identical faces, she couldn’t help but think that Roshi had gotten it maybe just a little bit right about their being frosty. “Um...right,” she turned back to the gathered crowd and gestured for the androids to do the same, “any questions? The twins will be here with us from now on, so there is no need to feel rushed or threatened. Please, get to know them like you might any other member of our crew.”

.

.

“Weird to think of those two as Dr. Gero’s kids, huh?” Radditz mused aloud as he ran a hand down Puar’s naked back, his pointer finger staying perfectly in line with the thin strip of blue fur that ran from the base of the shapeshifter’s skull to the base of his tail.

“Very.” It was the middle of the night and they both should have been fast asleep, Radditz especially, considering that he was supposed to get up for morning sparring in a few short hours, but neither had really been able to sleep...not _while_ the humping was going on, at least. And now afterward, just as Puar thought he might finally get to pop back into cat form and curl up for a rest, Radditz dropped a bombshell.

“Think we’ll every have some?” the saiyan wondered aloud. “Cubs, I mean.”

“Uhh, what?” Puar’s whole body stiffened and his head shot up from its comfy position on the other man’s bicep. “Cubs? You mean kids? Us?” His voice was tight, strangled.

“Yeah.” Radditz seemed to shrink a little under Puar’s surprised gaze, as though he was embarrassed for ever having even had the thought. At that moment, he certainly regretted voicing it.

“In case you forgot, neither of us is currently equipped of a uterus,” Puar pointed out, shuffling out from the crook of Radditz’s arm and sitting up cross legged on the bed. Radditz pulled himself up too, though a little more slowly.

“I know...but couldn’t you...ya know,” he spread his fingers and gestured to Puar in illustration, and had the cat not been so irritated by the suggestion, he might have found the look on Radditz’s face endearing, “poof?”

“I’m not a girl, Radditz,” Puar pointed out, a little bit of a dangerous edge to his voice, “and I have no desire to be.” He paused, and Radditz hunched into himself. “Ever.”

“It’d only be for a little while...” the saiyan muttered, looking away to pick at the blankets.

“Radditz!” Puar gasped, exasperated. “I can’t even hold this form for twenty four hours! What in the world makes you think I can create a functional uterus and hold it for months? Besides that, it’s only my form that changes; not my composition or genetics. It’s not like I’ll grow some boobs and a cervix and suddenly I’ll have real live ovaries, eggs included.” His tail was whipping back and forth along the mattress and Radditz watched it for a moment, knowing he’d pissed off his little blue cat.

“Oh,” he said, sounding a little dumb. “I guess I didn’t think of that. You sure it wouldn’t work?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Damn. Maybe Bulma can make us some in her tanks, now they’re empty.” He shut up when he looked up to see just how narrow Puar’s eyes had gotten. Squinting was not a good sign. “I said maybe!”

“I know what you said,” Puar retorted, crossing his arms over his bare chest and wishing he was at least wearing underwear. It was hard to look dignified and justifiably affronted in your birthday suit.

“I didn’t say it had to be, like, tomorrow or anything.” Radditz grumbled, his own tail puffing out behind him as he went on the defensive. Puar’s eyes were still narrowed to slits.

“I’m not a girl,” Puar repeated, staunchly. “Just because you’re bigger doesn’t make you the guy.”

“We’re both guys,” Radditz cocked his head, utterly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not the feminine one, or the childbearing type. If we have kids, there’s no way I’m being the mom.”

“Okay, for starters, you are the more feminine of the two of us,” Radditz snorted, “but I didn’t say you had to be Mrs. Mom. I just thought since you’re the only one here who can change shape at will...” he muttered, then stopped himself. “Whatever, Kitten. You can be big papa butch dad man if it makes you feel better, and the cubs can call me whatever the hell they want, s’long as it ain’t insulting. My mom was a tough bitch – an’ I say that with all the respect in the universe – but there was no softness in that woman. Dad was the lovey one, an’ if you ever met Bardock, you know that’s saying a lot ‘cause he was no marshmallow either.”

“Well...fine.” Puar uncrossed his arms and flopped back down onto his pillow. “When Bulma figures out a way to successfully combine our DNA into a viable life form and we have ourselves a little test tube baby, you’re the mommy.” He reached out and flicked off the bedside light, and as he settled himself into the blankets, he felt the mattress shift as Radditz scooted to spoon against him.

“Fine,” the saiyan said, reaching a big arm around Puar to trail lazy fingers across his stomach, “but just so you know, even if you can’t have girl parts, won’t stop me trying to make babies with you.” He leaned down to nip Puar’s shoulder and his hand dipped lower.

“Fine,” Puar gasped, arching back against his mate as one hand clenched in the sheets, “I can deal with that.”

.

.

Krilin sat, panting, on the side of the training mat. Gohan was beside him, busily trying to rub a bad cramp from his left calf. Floating just a few feet off the ground in the center of the ring, Radditz was hanging on by a thread as Nappa pounded into him. Vegeta had sequestered himself, alone, in the gravity room again, leaving the bald brute in a nasty mood at being relegated to training with the ‘weaklings’ and he’d predictably taken it out on them in the ring. Goku and Piccolo moved through slow katas by the far wall, waiting for their turn, since the recovering saiyan had been expressly forbidden to enter into the fray. Chichi had given Goku a stern talking-to about not over exerting himself and Piccolo, surprisingly enough, had agreed to keep an eye on him for her. None of Goku’s protestations had so far convinced the namek to allow him into the ring with Nappa. Krillin wasn’t sure which of the unlikely pair would win a fight at this point, but there was obviously no doubt in Goku’s mind that if he tried anything, Piccolo would rat him out and then he’d be on the outs with his wife again.

As Krillin watched them move in perfect synchronicity, a sudden pang of jealousy took residence in his gut. He wondered just when they’d become such good friends, that Goku would actually do what Piccolo told him to. Krillin knew that if it’d been him in that situation, Goku would have bowled him over a long time ago, and to add insult to injury, if he’d tattled to Chichi, she’d have him by the balls for _allowing_ it in the first place. Not fair.

“Maybe if I was taller,” he muttered aloud, looking at the short, stubby legs sticking out before him, and comparing them to Piccolo’s skyscraper frame, “or an alien,” he rolled his eyes, observing the company that surrounded him and realizing that he was the only human in the room, and also the weakest of the bunch. How pathetic! Short and stubby, bald as a cueball, and no chance of ever catching up to even the child beside him, in terms of strength. Sure, at least Tien was weaker than him, but at least the triclops could stand up and look a woman in the eye without having to levitate to do so.

Krillin sighed and wondered to himself just when it had all become a competition.

A pair of canvas sneakers stepped into the space beside his knee, with no ki-signal to match them, and he had his answer. The shoes were Bulma’s, and about a half a size too big for Eighteen’s delicate feet; a difference not helped by the fact that she wasn’t wearing any socks. Krillin followed the curve of her ankle, upward to where her slim calves disappeared beneath a pair of old fashioned, high-waisted gingham pedal pushers that actually covered her belly button – he knew she had one because he’d seen it in the kitchen the previous day, though he didn’t know what purpose it might serve. A thick band of stretchy fabric circled her chest to make her a less well-endowed version of Mrs. Briefs in the summertime. Krillin wondered if Eighteen had picked out the tube top herself, or if the whole outfit had been forced upon her by Bulma’s mother.

“Hi Eighteen!” Gohan piped up, reminding Krillin that he wasn’t actually alone with her, and he suddenly wondered how long he’d been staring. Eighteen turned, her eyes skimming over the former monk to rest on the child.

“Hello,” she replied flatly, though neither held that fact against her. They were used to Sixteen’s taciturn ways and her lack of a smile could hardly be deemed insulting. She turned away to watch the fight, and Krillin sat twiddling his hands in his lap, wishing that he’d been the one to greet her. He felt he should at least say something.

“You could...um...sit down, if you want,” he offered, scootching to the side to make room and gesturing to the space he’d made. She turned her head to look him in the eye as he spoke, a wholly disconcerting experience, but did not make any move to sit.

“I could,” she said simply, and though Krillin understood that she’d probably not meant it as a rebuff, his face coloured hotly when she turned her eyes once more toward the mat. He felt quite like he had the very first time he’d gotten up the nerve to chat up a nice looking girl in a bar, who’d turned him down flat before he’d even finished introducing himself. He’d learned quickly to spot and avoid the kind of girl who wouldn’t give a short guy the time of day and he’d had a lot more luck because of it, but Eighteen’s blank face and cold gaze made her impossible to read. She really wasn’t his usual type either; he tended to go for curvy women with bubbly personalities, over-the-top-friendly girls who would put up with his stature long enough for his charm to shine through. Unfortunately, when it came to Eighteen at least, it seemed all his charm had deserted him. He could hardly form a sentence while she was in the room, much less awe her with his wit and sense of humour. He was completely and totally lost as to how to deal with her, and if not for the intense and overwhelming attraction he felt, he might have given up on her altogether.

In the ring, Nappa slammed Radditz down, and the long haired saiyan did not get up. Nappa floated near the ceiling, crowing his victory as Gohan got up to check on his uncle, hauling him up and helping him to slump over to the side wall. Krillin forcibly tore his own attention from Eighteen’s stately profile long enough to fetch Radditz a cup of water. “Okay, big guy?” he asked, handing it over and watching the big saiyan down it in one gulp.

“Meh,” Radditz wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and shrugged, “not permanently damaged, just winded. Fucker knocked the breath right outta me, maybe cracked a few ribs while he was at it.” He glared up at Nappa, who was looking around, casting about for challengers, before turning back to Krillin. “Nothing a few hours in a tank won’t fix. Nice that Bulma had the other two moved into the med bay for us.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Krillin agreed aloud, though the fact that the saiyans deliberately brutalized each other and simply popped in and out of regen tanks still secretly gave him the willies. Like Puar, he was far too new to the vagaries of the saiyan mindset, only finally just having forged something of a friendship with Radditz beyond a mutual willingness to spar together. He steered mostly clear of Nappa, and Vegeta wasn’t exactly someone you could have a normal conversation with.

“Haw, haw!” Nappa guffawed, and the little trio turned to see what had him in such stitches. The bald saiyan was no longer taunting Goku, but was focused wholly on lithe little Eighteen, who had at some point in the last minute, stepped into the center of the mat. Krillin blanched. “Are you challenging me, little girl?” Nappa laughed, dropping to the ground with a thud. “You think you can take me?” He puffed out his chest within its armour encasement and straightened his back, standing to his full, intimidating height.

“I would say that the question is,” Eighteen flicked her hair casually, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she showed her very first hint of attitude, “whether you think you can handle me?”

.

Bulma stepped to the side, clutching her cup of coffee to her chest as she made room in the hall for Krillin and Gohan to lug Nappa’s unconscious form down the hall and into the infirmary. Radditz limped along behind them, one arm clutching his ribs. She followed them, watching with curiosity as they hefted Nappa’s gargantuan body into one of the regeneration tanks and began the process of hooking him up. “I thought Vegeta was solo-training in the gravity room today,” she said, taking a sip.

“He was.” Radditz wheezed climbing into the tank next to Nappa’s. He winced as he plopped down a little too hard on the back bench and jarred his ribs.

“Wow, so you guys did this?” Bulma stepped forward and peered at a blotchy bruise on Nappa’s forehead. “Impressive, even if it did take the three of you. Goku didn’t jump in, did he? Chichi will have a fit,” she went on, oblivious to the look passing between the three conscious men in the room.

“It was Eighteen,” Krillin’s strangled voice broke the news, and Bulma blinked in surprise. The poor man sounded as though he was in shock. “Eighteen got into the ring with him. We thought he was going to crush her...and bam. Three minutes later, he was down for the count.”

“Bitch’s fucking fast,” Radditz breathed, and Bulma chose not to reprimand him for his word choice because it was plain he wasn’t speaking out of malice.

“Is she okay?” Bulma asked, though Krillin noticed that she didn’t seem overly concerned.

“I don’t know,” Krillin answered, truthfully.

“What?” Bulma shrieked, “You didn’t check on her? What the hell’s wrong with you guys?”

“Well....” Gohan paused, and Bulma tapped her foot and glared impatiently, waiting for him to finish.

“She was okay, after she beat Nappa,” Krillin finished for the boy, “but as far as right now, we’re not so sure.”

“Because?” Bulma was getting sick of their riddle-speak. All she wanted was a straight answer as to whether she should be paging Sixteen to the training deck in a panic.

“Because after she beat the living shit out of Nappa,” Radditz drew Bulma’s ire in yet a third direction, “Vegeta came out of the gravity room and demanded that she come train with him.”

.

Well, she was holding her own, at least, Bulma thought as she frowned through the window in the gravity room door. Eighteen was quick as hell and even though Vegeta was obviously stronger, she was dodging most of his blows. Most, Bulma winced as she watched him connect, the power in his kick sending Eighteen’s frail looking body into the wall. Krillin, standing at Bulma’s elbow, cringed.

“Vegeta!” Bulma shouted into the intercom, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She knew Eighteen was much stronger than she looked, knew the twins, like Sixteen, had been designed with combat as a primary function, but it didn’t mean she liked to see Vegeta go at it with another girl. Sparring could be a very erotic experience for the fighters, she well knew from the two major relationships in her life, as many a project or research session had been interrupted by a sweaty man with a victory erection.

Through the little panel of glass Bulma and Krillin watched Vegeta touch gently down on the ground. He stood with his back to them, arms crossed and feet shoulder width apart, watching as Eighteen thumped to the floor. She didn’t get up. Vegeta shrugged and walked to the control panel, and a few seconds later Bulma and Krillin could hear the hum of the gravity simulator as it worked to steadily restore normality in the chamber. Krillin rushed over to Eighteen as soon as the door lock popped, but she was already hauling herself up off the ground.

“She’s not as good as I thought she might be,” Vegeta snorted, glaring at Bulma as though it was somehow her fault that the android hadn’t proved sufficiently deadly. “Though she’ll do as a sparring partner for now. Is the other one better?”

“How the hell should I know?” Bulma scoffed, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and glaring right back. She didn’t like the idea of Vegeta being locked up in here all day with the sexy android.

“I am unused to the gravity,” Eighteen said. “I overestimated the condition of my body. My strength and reflexes are below Dr. Gero’s estimations. I must confer with Seventeen. We must train.” She brushed the wrinkles from the polyester capri pants and straightened her tube top, and left the room without any further interaction. Krillin edged out behind her, wondering if maybe he should offer himself up as a sparring partner.

“Don’t train alone with her,” Bulma pouted, as soon as she was alone with Vegeta. He cocked an eyebrow in question and she shrugged.

“Idiot woman,” Vegeta rolled his eyes, easily gathering her meaning. “I would no sooner sleep with that creature than I would Nappa.”

“Well you haven’t exactly been coming to bed while I’m still awake lately,” she snorted back.

“Oh, is that your problem?” Vegeta was just about to reach for her when Goku’s head popped in the door.

“I saw Eighteen leave,” he said, oblivious to what he’d just interrupted. “Does that mean you’re done now? Can we have a turn now?” He hiked a thumb toward Piccolo, who was most certainly not oblivious, and also not pleased by the idea of _that_ going on inside the gravity room. Paired reproduction was such a sticky, undignified process. Much better, in his mind, to just spit out a shelled clone of oneself.

“Yes,” Bulma answered quickly, smiling innocently as the saiyan prince glared her down. “He’s done. We’ll go now.” She grabbed Vegeta’s hand and led him past the ecstatic Goku. He allowed it only, he told himself, because Kakarrot needed desperately to train.

.

.

Dende had never been in Dr. Gero’s lab before, so his impromptu visit felt strange, even though the place was technically  Bulma’s now. He looked around at the walls, hoping she wasn’t planning on leaving all the fake body parts hanging there. Dende knew that they were spare parts for Sixteen, but it was still creepy to look up and see a whole wall of disembodied arms, reaching for Namek-knows-what. He averted his eyes and swung his legs in the too-tall chair, waiting for Bulma to return from the back sink with his cup of water. He hadn’t really meant to visit her, but he’d been skulking about, trying to avoid running into Oboe, who he knew was looking for him. When Bulma appeared suddenly in his path, asking him to come down to her lab for a chat, the idea of refusing hadn’t even crossed his mind. The older namek would never think to look for him there, and even if he did, Dende was sure that Bulma would cover for him.

“Hey, sorry I took so long,” Bulma made a face as she reappeared from behind a stack of boxes. “I had to dig around for some clean cups. Man, I can be a pig sometimes.” She handed him a glass and Dende hid a smile as he took a sip; Bulma was the friendliest and most open person he had ever known and he’d liked her from the very first moment he’d met her. With her there were no pretentions, no pressure to act a certain way because anyone who met her could tell she was as genuine as they came. When she was pleased, it was obvious. When she was pissed, she made it known. She spoke her mind and acted out her every impulse without embarrassment. She was self assured in a way that Dende envied, much like her partner. Unlike Vegeta, she was actually approachable.

“I want to be like you,” he blurted, before he could stop himself. Bulma blinked, a little taken aback by his sudden confession, but she looked pleased.

“Why’s that?” she asked, wiping the dust from a crate and perching on it with her own cup. She hadn’t been planning on inviting Dende in, but the impulse had struck before she’d thought about the lack of chairs. Dende blushed a violent shade of plum and stared into his drink. Bulma was just beginning to wonder if she should change the subject when he finally answered.

“You’re so confident,” he said, unable to look at her. “You’re so bold. You say what you want, do what you want, and other people listen to you. They follow you.” He dragged his eyes from the water’s surface to look up at her, shyly. “I’m not like that.”

“Is it the other nameks?” Bulma asked, and Dende nodded shamefully. “I thought things seemed strained.

“They don’t like Vegeta,” Dende explained, sheepishly aware that she liked Vegeta very, very much. To his surprise, Bulma laughed out loud.

“Most people don’t.” She was grinning. “I sure as hell didn’t.” She scooted to the edge of the crate and patted the newly open space next to her. “C’mere,” she said, cocking her head to the side when he didn’t immediately get up. “I won’t bite you, geez,” she laughed, and Dende came over, laughing too, to hop up onto the crate. She put her arm around his little shoulder and hugged him to her side. “Look Dende, I’m not in your position. I love my friends and they love me, but if they listen to what I have to say, it’s because they respect and trust me, not because they feel obligated to.”

“I...I released them,” Dende whispered up at her, a pleading note in his little voice. “I told them they didn’t have to follow me anymore, if they didn’t want to.”

“Well good.” Bulma nodded, and Dende felt relief flood through his body. He sagged a little with the release of tension, and Bulma hugged him tighter to her side. “Look, I don’t know how any of this is going to turn out. All you can do is live the way you want to live, and do what you think is right. You’re never going to be able to please everybody and if you try, you’ll only end up making yourself miserable. Guru trusted that you would know what to do, and if the others can’t see that...well, they didn’t know him very well, did they?”

“No,” Dende shook his head and felt a little bit comforted, privately thinking that this must be how Gohan felt in the odd moments that he let Chichi coddle him. Bulma already had the twins, but he wondered if maybe she wouldn’t mind cuddling him every once in a while. He would have to check with Gohan to see if it would be weird of him to ask.  “I guess they didn’t.”

“Say, have you ever thought about talking to Piccolo?” Bulma asked, after a moment of quiet. “He was a god on Earth, you know. Well, part of him.”

“That’s what Gohan said,” Dende recalled the day he’d gone down to the training ring to watch the men spar, and to maybe chat with the intimidating namekian stranger. “I was going to, but I got scared. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Ooh, I can see that,” Bulma laughed, thinking of how terrified she’d been of the old Demon King in her youth. “Well, maybe someone could go with you.”

“Thanks Bulma, but,” Dende paused, pulled away and felt a little ashamed at how childish he felt. He was a namekian Elder, a child only in age, and he had to stand on his own two feet, “I think I need to learn how to do things on my own.”

Bulma was reluctant to let him move away from her side, sad to see him hop off the crate and stand on the floor, looking so small and alone, but she knew he had to, if he was ever to lead Guru’s lost little flock. “Okay,” she agreed. “You’re right. But, you know, if you ever need someone to talk to, you can come to me, or to any one of the Red Station crew.” She grinned and winked at him, “Even Vegeta. If he’s mean to you, I’ll kick his butt.”

Dende laughed at her joke, his laugh turned into a sob and he threw himself at her still sitting form, throwing his arms around her waist as he buried his head in her belly and cried for the second time since he’d come to Red.


	41. Chapter 41

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Happy 2nd Birthday, Vengeance! That’s right folks, two years ago on May 16th, I posted the very first chapter of Ven. I’m not sure if I’m proud of myself for my perseverance, or if I should be berating myself for delaying other things for two whole years, plus however long it takes to finish this baby...haha. What I do know is how grateful I am to all of you who keep coming back from update to update, who continually leave reviews or send encouraging emails. It’s ridiculous how great you guys are.

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PRESENT DAY

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Zarbon groaned and rolled over, not at all surprised that Orly was no longer next to him. The lack of shock didn’t stop him from being a little disappointed and he wondered idly if Burter ever would have snuck out before sunrise. Of course Zarbon knew why Orly did it; the young charmer was seeing at least two other people, both women, on this space station and he didn’t want to be caught leaving anyone’s bedroom. He fed them all pretty lies and went about his business, but Zarbon knew about his dalliances. It was easy to tell, as someone who’d done the same with his own little trysts under Frieza’s nose.

He wasn’t quite sure why he put up with it, but it had been going on for two months now, and it hadn’t killed him yet. Filled him with a mild sense of self-loathing, yes, but considering that he didn’t really feel all that much for Orly beyond a stiff cock, he wasn’t so sure he had a right to be pissed off. His ego had taken a bit of a blow, that was for sure, but he hadn’t felt compelled to confront the other man yet, nor to stop allowing him into bed. Perhaps it was his loneliness, or the fact that he still felt a bit flattered, or even just the fact that Orly was the only person on this whole space station that he knew even remotely well. They’d left the original base shortly after Vegeta’s announcement and had been travelling from place to place, trying to drum up support. There were others in the crew, of course, but the actual people rotated from place to place, and Orly was always there. It was so easy to just remain with him. There was no one else he could talk to so easily and on most days, the effort seemed too great to bother.

Zarbon shook his head and sat up. The pity party wasn’t doing anyone any good. Nor was shoving all thought to the back of his mind and papering over it, but at least that way he got things done. That way, he still got out of bed in the morning and didn’t give in to the pervasive urge to simply wallow in the mess that was his life. He really hadn’t intended to begin his future of freedom by crawling into bed with the man in charge before following him across the universe; he’d done that once, and it hadn’t exactly ended well. He was doing good work with Orly, sure. Gathering followers to the cause was important, but he was growing restless. He longed to go head to head with some of the enemy, maybe even blow up a base or two. It was just his luck that he’d ended up with a relatively pacifistic rebel cell. They rallied the people, encouraged them to go out and fight, all the while hiding behind their radio transmitters themselves.

Perhaps when Orly’s team left this place, Zarbon thought he could stay behind and make a life here, for himself. Do some odd jobs to make some credit, buy himself a little ship and just take off, wreak some havoc wherever he could. Never mind that most of his accounts had been wiped out – some official, some he _thought_ he’d hidden well – which would leave him stranded for months, maybe years on another dank hulker, floating along in space and more than half the inhabitants hadn’t seen a drop of sunlight in years. Maybe he’d hang out with Orly a bit longer and scope out a few places, at least long enough for his hair to grow back to ponytail length. At the moment it was an awkward fringe of a few inches and he didn’t really want to start a new life until he was handsome again.

Maybe he’d just float along for a while like he had been, waiting for the catalyst that would change his life again.

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“So what’s your brother like?” Bulma didn’t look up as she asked the question, absorbed as she was in the circuit board on her workbench. Vegeta stood on the other side, impatiently tapping his foot as he waited for her to diagnose the problem.

“Weak,” he snapped back, and then, “Well? Can it be fixed?”

“Pff, a little more than that please, Vegeta. I meant what’s he like? Is he friendly or does having a stick up one’s royal arse run in the family?” She looked up to glare at him as she said this, but most of the effect was ruined by the magnifying goggles she’d strapped on. All he could see through them was the luminous blue of her eyes around monstrous pupils; classic, cartoon brainiac.

“By the gods, woman, those are awful,” Vegeta scoffed and returned to his earlier tack. “The circuit board?”

“Hold your damn horses, Vegeta. I’m trying here.” She picked up a pair of padded tweezers and her soldering iron and he wisely shut up while she worked on the delicate piece of machinery, for beneath her tools was the mother board for the gravity room’s control console. Without that bit, the whole thing was useless. “So anyway, Tarble,” Bulma prompted as she lay down her tools and began the tedious process of testing her repair.

“There is not much to tell,” Vegeta shrugged, watching her nimble hands as she worked. He had only a vague idea of what she was doing, but trusted that if there was a way to fix the board, she would find it...even if he wasn’t going to tell her that. “You know,” he said instead, “if you’d just fix your faulty machine, it wouldn’t burn through these things so fast.”

“You know,” she returned sweetly, though there was a solid backbone of steel in her voice, “if a certain someone would stop running the room at max capacity for twenty hours at a time, perhaps the console would stop overheating.” It was the third board they’d gone through since the machine’s creation, and they were officially out of spares. “Or if he would allow me the time to do proper testing, without tapping his tacky, gold-toed boots in my ear the whole time,” she trailed off, swearing, as the diagnostic tool reported no signal.

“My boots will not take insults from a woman wearing coffee-stained coveralls, who thinks a screw is a hair accessory.” Vegeta frowned as he watched pick up the board up again, peering at it through those bottle-thick magnifyers of hers. She looked absolutely, stark-raving mad.

“For your information, it’s an Allen key,” Bulma pointed out as she tilted her head to the side and gestured at the bent piece of metal she was using to secure a tumble of curls to the back of her head, the way Chichi often used decorative chopsticks. “As for the coffee stains, I wear them with pride. This is the outfit of a woman so hard at work, for your benefit might I add, that she doesn’t even have time to do laundry. Besides, you’re the rich one; shouldn’t you be keeping me in jewelled combs and silk gowns?” She grinned impishly up at him as she reached for her soldering iron again.

“You would have any gown covered in engine grease within minutes, and you’d probably dismantle a comb to make a wiring relay, or some other such nonsense. If I wanted to sweep you off your idiot feet, I’d simply let you run shrieking through Akeebah Market with all of my credit accounts at your disposal,” he paused, narrowing his eyes at her, “which, by the way, is not going to happen any time soon.”

“You don’t want to sweep me off my feet?” She pouted prettily, batting her eyelashes at him in mock flirtation.

“Only if you land on your back,” Vegeta sneered in return and, to his surprise, Bulma laughed. He was actually trying to piss her off, distract her from this annoying train of conversation so that she might get it in her big, fat brain to concentrate on fixing the gravity room’s control system.

“Charmer,” she muttered, leaning low over the circuit board and adjusting her lamp accordingly. “Anyway, I seriously want to know about your brother.”

“And I told you, I hardly know the runt. I was five when Frieza took me, and Tarble hardly more than a squalling newborn. I was already grown before Nappa even told me he’d survived, and in my twenties before I made contact with him. We are not what one would call _close_.”

Bulma paused in her work and looked up at him, the hot tip of the iron still suspended mere centimetres over the board. Vegeta watched it nervously, a million different scenarios running through his brain in which she might somehow drop the thing, irreparably damaging the precious part and delaying his high-G training even further. He opened his mouth, about to reprimand her for her carelessness, but she spoke first, stopping him in his tracks. “That’s...kind of sad,” she said simply, turning her head down to her task. No tears or pity, just quiet bewilderment. He could see in her eyes that she did not quite understand his ambivalence, close as she was to her own abominable family, and it was something he could not really explain to her.

“Tarble is...mated,” Vegeta offered, after a moment of thoughtful silence in which the only sound was the hiss of searing hot metal. “He has lived a peaceful life, on a peaceful planet so far outside of Frieza’s reach. He cannot comprehend...” Vegeta paused, “we do not...” he trailed off again, and this time he did not attempt to resume speaking. He watched her work, her lips drawn in and clamped between her teeth, and could tell that she was thinking on that.

“The board is shot,” she said, finally, and despite the bad news, Vegeta was glad she did not pursue the matter of his brother. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to get another one before you can up the gravity again.”

“Fuck,” he replied, though without as much venom as he would have liked to muster. He did not like thinking about his brother or the circumstances which had set them on such violently different paths in life, but now the thoughts were heavy in his mind and dulling other things. He would need to train extra hard to force them from his brain; a challenge without the boosted gravity. Perhaps if all of the others teamed up, including the humans and the androids, they could give a super saiyan a decent sparring session. Then again, Vegeta thought as he watched Bulma stretch over the back of her chair, breasts jutting out beneath those mangy coveralls, the woman across the table was always good for a bit of a work out. She was an expert at easing his frustrations.

If he could not fight, he might at least fuck.

“Know of any parts markets around this quadrant of space?” Bulma asked, oblivious to the sweep of his eyes across her body. “Or should I get online and look for one?” She was unprepared for his quick movement; one moment he was across the bench from her, sitting idly on a stool, and the next he was pressed up against her back, lips pressed against her neck. His hands were warm on her belly, fingers quick as they grasped the zipper to her coveralls. “Oh!” she gasped, not having been prepared for the sudden assault, though she supposed part of her was always a little bit ready for his advances. He came upon her so randomly and with such quickness, she had long ago worked out that he enjoyed catching her off guard, working her from cold to panting hot in the span of seconds. 

Vegeta spun the chair so that she faced him and bent over her, his hands planted on the workbench, on either side of her head. “I know a place,” he said, transferring his weight to one hand and using the other to pluck the metal tool from her hair. He held it up before his face, studied its hexagonal ends, and scoffed. “You are,” he looked back at her and tossed the Allen key on the table, where it landed with a clatter, “a most unusual female.”

“Meh. Deal with it,” Bulma grinned up at him as her fingers played at the waistband of his training shorts. He wasn’t wearing armour today; something she appreciated as she pushed his t-shirt up a little to reveal washboard abs. “Besides, you need my unusual brains. I’m useful.”

“You are that,” Vegeta admitted as he pushed the coveralls from her shoulders, “though your skills as a mechanic are not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Computer,” Bulma said aloud as she shrugged out of the sleeves and pulled her tanktop up over her head, “engage door locks. Disable all non-proprietary passwords.”

“Confirmed,” a mechanized voice said, and Bulma grinned up at Vegeta, who’d cocked an eyebrow down at her.

“Neat, huh? I figured it out last week, after I cracked Gero’s voice recognition system. Now we won’t have any interruptions.” She reached up and wrapped her arms around Vegeta’s neck, drawing his mouth down to meet her own. His hands were beneath her thighs in seconds and she felt herself lifted up from the chair, heard him kick it aside and felt the table beneath her bottom a moment later. How many times had she fantasized about doing it with him on her worktable? The number was beyond counting; unfathomable by human intellect. There was no way she was taking the chance that one of the androids might decide to come it at any moment. Bulma had made it clear to the three of them that they could come and go as they please, but now was not really the time.

“Meh.” Vegeta shoved Bulma’s goggles aside, half hoping they might fall from the table and break, and more carefully set the circuit board away, thinking it might still be of some use. He kissed her again, pleased with her innovation but not in the mood to talk about it. Instead, he helped her wriggle out of the coveralls and her panties, for as usual, she wasn’t wearing pants under there. He stripped quickly too, in a bit of a frenzy, for he’d yet to actually have her in her lab, and she wasn’t the only one who’d spent time fantasizing about it.

“Ouch!” Bulma yelped, wincing as she dug a small bolt out from under one butt cheek. “Ahh, careful!” she warned, as the table rocked against the wall and everything atop it shook dangerously. “Oh!” she cried out again, hearing something topple to the floor as she dug in a drawer for her secret stash of protection. The reality was not so simple as fantasy, in which Vegeta simply swept the table clean with one arm and everything was miraculously undamaged in the wake of crashing to the ground.

“Oh, for the love of Vegetasei!” Vegeta scoffed, hauling her up off the table again, and plopping into Bulma’s rolly chair with her in his lap. “Better?” he demanded, and she nodded sheepishly. “Keep a table clean next time,” he muttered, reaching for her hips and drawing her onto himself. She straddled him, her legs on either side of his waist and sticking out in the small spaces between the arm and backrests.

“Rolly chair,” Bulma panted as her toes scrabbled for purchase on the cold floor, “why didn’t I think of this before?” She grunted and let her forehead fall to his shoulder as Vegeta moved deep within her, his hands tight on her hips to steady her motions. It was actually pretty comfortable, he thought as he leaned on the backrest, leveraging his weight against it as he thrust his hips upward, though he imagined that if they went at it for too long, his ass might just get fabric burn from the seat’s woven covering.

They finished quickly, clamped together on the tiny chair, with her legs quickly cramping and an awkward disentangling of limbs awaiting them. Maybe the table would have been better after all.

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Zarbon watched, half with admiration and half with disgust, as Orly went over the speech he’d planned for that evening’s broadcast. It was surprising how much of his hellraising oratory came from the minds of other men and women. It was obvious, by the smell of him, that the young rebel had come recently from one such female. He’d showered, but soap and water were not quite enough to fool Zarbon’s sense of smell. Why, he could practically _taste_ it in the air. Sneering at Orly’s turned back, he smacked his lips, trying to swallow away the foul film on his tongue.

“Praise be!” Orly intoned into Zarbon’s mirror, fisting a hand over his chest in apparent emotion. Since it was about the seventh time Orly had practiced this part of the broadcast, Zarbon knew it was all for show. “Band together, all of you, under the flag of the indomitable Prince Vegeta!”

Vegeta, Zarbon thought, indomitable? He wondered what these people would say if they knew how many times Vegeta had been beaten to a pulp by Frieza, how many times he’d been left bloody and ragged on the floor for his sorry little tribe to nurse back to health. What had changed, Zarbon asked himself, that Vegeta now thought he was a match for the icejin tyrant? Did Vegeta think he could actually win, or like Zarbon was he just so desperate for some kind of action that even this suicide plan was better than the alternative of living under Frieza’s thumb for even a moment longer?

“Have you ever met Vegeta?” Zarbon asked, interrupting the other man’s speech.

“No, I have not had the honour,” Orly replied, meeting Zarbon’s eyes in the mirror. There was a quizzical expression on his face, as though he couldn’t understand why this should matter.

“He’s a prick,” Zarbon snorted and flopped back onto his pillows. They were in his bedroom but so far Orly had been too preoccupied with getting his gestures _just right_ that there hadn’t been any time to take clothes off. It was a radio broadcast, Orly had once explained, but the people on the bases gathered to watch them go out live and he needed to look suitably enthused. Zarbon rolled his eyes at the ceiling, just thinking about it.

“I don’t recall you saying anything at the broadcast of his speech. You seemed pretty impressed.”

“I was impressed,” Zarbon snapped back, hauling himself up to a sitting position to glare at his sometime-lover. “I was impressed that he could keep his sense of self-importance in check long enough to even pretend he gives a shit about everyone else in the universe.” He turned his head away to look at the wall, not really certain where his sudden venom had come from. Despite his words, he had no problem with Vegeta now; certainly if they met up they would not become fast friends, but his hatred for the saiyan had dissipated with the knowledge that Vengeance and Vegeta were one and the same. It was moreso the blind faith, the _fake_ faith that bothered him.  Or maybe it had nothing to do with Vegeta, and everything to do with the pompous boy in front of the mirror.

“What’s your problem, Zarbon?” Orly threw down his cue cards and spun his body around, Zarbon’s little vanity stool creaking with the rough movement.

“I was like you, once,” Zarbon said, as he stood up from the bed. He felt old, suddenly, and tired. “Young and stupid, and filled with belief in something I knew _nothing_ about. That something was Frieza, and it turned out badly.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“It probably won’t,” Zarbon shrugged, “but my point is that it could, and you wouldn’t know the difference until it was all around you, clawing at you, dragging you down.” He choked the words out, stopping suddenly to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He reminded himself of his freedom, the flow of air around his limbs, unimpeded by heavy, metal cuffs. He could go ahead and open up, tell Orly his hopes and fears, his life story in excruciating detail, but it would do neither of them any good. Orly was young, idealistic, and too narcissistic to believe that he could ever step wrong, make a bad decision. That confidence was a big part of his mass appeal and as much as it bothered Zarbon to watch the little puppet dance, he couldn’t deny that Orly’s broadcasts were a good thing.

“I think I should go,” Orly looked away, “leave you alone for a bit. I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t bother.” Zarbon crossed the room, opened the door then stepped back and stood beside it, waiting. “Go back to your girlfriend. Whichever one,” he added, and Orly started, plainly surprised that Zarbon knew. He thought he’d been so careful. “I’m sure they’ll make a better audience than you’re finding here.” He closed the door as Orly left, leaned against it and heaved a sigh. There was really no reason for him to have been such an asshole and he’d likely just alienated his only friend, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. This fake sort of goodness, the blind following of anything that was simply _not Frieza_ was no good for him. He needed real conviction, bloodletting for a purpose, violence that he could believe in, and he was not getting it here.

Zarbon pushed himself away from the door and went off to make himself up for public viewing. It was time for him to start getting his life in order.

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Krillin watched Eighteen move through the crowded shop, paranoid that someone might look at her a little too long, a little too closely, and discover her secret. The rational part of his brain was insisting that she was physically indistinguishable from a normal biological being and that hey, this was _outer space_ and androids and other sorts of genetically altered, test tube people probably existed, and that even if they didn’t, the crowd was as diverse as one could possibly be; no one would question her origins. Unfortunately for Krillin, the other side of his brain, the one that was madly, passionately in love with her was winning, and all of his protective instincts had gone into high gear. Nevermind the fact that she could take care of herself and that her equally capable brother hardly left her side; no, Krillin was on watch.

“I think we are finished with this place.” Eighteen said, somehow knowing that Krillin was the chaperone of the moment, and he was somehow to be deferred to.

“D...did you find anything good?” Krillin asked, even though he knew exactly what she’d taken into the dressing rooms and had already noted the fact that she hadn’t taken anything back out with her. He wasn’t trying to be a total creep about it, it was just that he couldn’t help but _notice_ her.

“No.” She shrugged her shoulders, her carrier bags rustling as they moved against each other. Bulma would say she’d had a successful day, and Krillin was glad for it. Since their first excursion to a small market shortly after awakening, both of the twins had developed something of a taste for fashion and had quickly grown tired of supplementing their meagre wardrobes with borrowed items from the rest of the crew. “Where is Seventeen?” she asked, consulting an inner clock so accurate that Krillin wondered if there was actually a real, physical timepiece buried somewhere within her brain. “It is nearly time to meet Bulma and the others.

“I’m here,” Seventeen answered, coming up from the cashier, having added another bag to his also-impressive handful. “We can go.” He led the way out of the store, with Krillin and Eighteen side by side behind him. Bulma and Dende were waiting outside the shop, and Krillin could see Tien making a beeline for them from across the way, with Bulma’s mother prancing along on his arm. Good, everyone was safe and sound.

“Um...your bags look heavy,” Krillin stuttered just a little bit as he turned his head to look up at Eighteen’s impressive profile. “Would you...I could carry them for you, if you want.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled, trying to look friendly and non-threatening as she turned to meet his gaze. She narrowed her eyes a little, as though she was trying to understand his offer, but then she blinked and shrugged, and handed her bags over.

“That is a kind offer, Krillin,” Seventeen said, and Krillin turned his face forward just in time to stop himself from running over the other android, who’d stopped dead in the street and was holding out his bags too, plainly waiting for the short human to take them.

“Uhhh...” Krillin’s eyes darted from Seventeen to Eighteen, to Bulma’s snickering form on the bench, and back to Seventeen. “Okay. No problem.” He sagged as he took hold of Seventeen’s purchases, and his back drooped lower still as Eighteen moved up to walk beside her brother. His cheeks were burning and he’d bunged up again with Eighteen, but what else was new?

“So I’m thinking we pause for a little lunch,” Bulma smiled as the group convened around her, “and then we hit the parts market. According to Vegeta, it’s two levels down.”

“Bulma, sweetie, that’s _boring_ ,” whined Mrs. Briefs, “don’t you think so, Tien?” She batted long eyelashes up at the bald warrior, who simply blushed and muttered something under his breath. “Then it’s settled. This sweet young hunk is going to take me to do some more shopping!” She released her hold momentarily to throw jazz hands into the air, before clamping her iron grip back down onto Tien’s beefy bicep. Bulma was beginning to understand why her father had elected to stay back at the ship instead of jumping at the opportunity to stretch his legs like most of the crew.

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Radditz really wished he’d managed a different disguise. The hood he was wearing trapped all of his hair against his neck, and it was starting to itch. His tail was coiled tightly around his waist, hidden beneath the long hem of his sweater; he’d had to promise to keep it there so that Vegeta would let him out. Oh well, at least he hadn’t been made to shove it down one pant-leg.

Gohan had submitted to the same rules, while Kakarott was free to wander unencumbered. He had no tail to give him away, nor was his face recognizable by the masses. Vegeta was paranoid about one of the saiyans being recognized and reported to Frieza’s forces, and had initially ordered them all to remain on Red Station while the others went out and about. Nappa stayed behind voluntarily, but Bulma had gone to bat for the rest of them, of course, and this compromise had been born. Radditz was really starting to like that girl. Thanks to her, he was out with Puar, truly and actually alone for the first time since the night they’d met. They were holding hands as they walked along, something he’d never done before and didn’t quite understand the purpose of, but he was enjoying it nonetheless. Even if he hadn’t been, he’d have done it anyway because it made his mate happy, and making his mate happy made his chest tight in a good way.

He had to admit, however, that he was rather jealous of Puar, clad simply in a t-shirt and jeans, tail fully visible and flicking gently from side to side as they walked. With his feline features and exotic colouring, there was no way Puar would ever be mistaken for a saiyan, and his humanoid form was not known to Frieza’s intelligence forces. Among this crowd of mongrels, he was simply just another member of a displaced species; nobody would look twice unless it was in simple admiration. In which case, Radditz thought he might just need to bust out his fists.

Puar was having a grand old time, flitting from stall to stall, and while Radditz might have been bored to tears by the shopping, he was thrilled to be sharing the day with the shapeshifter, meandering along under the bright shine of Harbour Station’s fake sun. Suns, more accurately, as there was a separate one on each of the richer levels. From what he recalled from his last visit many years ago, the slums in the lowest decks survived on phosphorescent bulbs.

He’d been in a raiding party then, long before Vegeta was handed the leadership of his own unit. Radditz had been kept mostly away from the other saiyans at that point in his life, for while Nappa was deemed a necessary caretaker for the young prince, Radditz was simply _that other saiyan_. Frieza had still been keeping up a front of civility in those days, keeping Vegeta under his thumb with lies about Vegetasei’s destruction. Actually, Radditz supposed, the lies had never really quite stopped. It was only that they’d found out and never confronted Frieza, knowing it would do no good until one of them was strong enough to take revenge.

Radditz and his raiding party had gone to the slums to suss out resistance members, even though they hadn’t been operating on any sort of tip. Harbour Colony was a relatively affluent station, and on the edges of Frieza’s territory where soldiers were thin on the ground. Places like this were always crawling with rebel sentiments; fear of retribution was low and chance of escape was much higher than in the inner zones.

Radditz looked up at Puar, who was bent low over a table, examining some merchandise, and felt that tug in his chest again. Was this what he would have to look forward to, when Frieza was dead? Could he and Puar find a peaceful planet to live on, carve out a life for themselves spend lazy days visiting markets in the _real_ sunshine? It sounded...boring.

“Radditz,” Puar hissed his name quietly, and cocked his head to the side, gesturing toward something in the distance. “Look at that!”

Together they sidled off toward the alley, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. This was a high level, with government and order on the surface of things, and respectable citizens most certainly did not stop to look at rebel graffiti on the sides of buildings. Puar snapped a quick photo of Vegeta’s stencilled face, the words _Prase Be_ , scrawled hastily and yes, misspelled, beneath it. “Why does he have a goatee and a moustache?” Puar asked.

“Because they got the wrong Vegeta,” Radditz chuckled a little, wondering how the prince would react upon seeing this. “That’s King Vegeta, our Vegeta’s father.”

“Yikes. They look...eerily similar.” Puar peeked his head out of the alley to see if anyone had been watching them, and they slipped easily back into the crowd.

“All the Vegetas do,” Radditz shrugged, though his eyes darted around as he said it. He didn’t relish the idea of being overheard talking about Vegeta, because the man in question would absolutely _murder_ him if their location got back to Frieza.

“What about your family? Do you also look like your dad’s twin brother?”

“Me? Not so much, but Kakarott’s the spitting image. I think I’ve got more of our mother in me.” He fluffed his hair and batted his eyes and Puar, who snorted at the idea of a female Radditz walking around. Then he saw something shiny and Radditz was resigned to more shopping.

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Bulma glanced behind herself for what felt like the thirtieth time that afternoon and gripped Dende’s hand a little tighter in her own. None of the nameks but the little sage had wanted to venture off of Red Station and she’d had to promise them up and down that she wouldn’t let the boy out of her sight for even a second. Actually, Krillin had also promised and that was probably the deciding factor since the nameks all knew Bulma’s fighting power was shit, but either way, she was taking her duties seriously. “I’m never having kids,” she muttered to herself as she looked around for Seventeen and Eighteen; the stealthy bastards kept getting away from her and she didn’t want to risk losing them in the crowd. They were as bad as real children. Luckily for her, she could count on the fact that Krillin would probably die a thousand horrible deaths before allowing Eighteen out of his sight; the little guy had it bad.

“I’ve never been to a space station this big!” Dende marvelled, not at all bothered by Bulma’s iron grip. She was his favourite human – Gohan didn’t count because he was half-saiyan – and had he the hormones and the biological predisposition for it, he would have been nursing a gigantic crush on the blue-eyed genius. Luckily for him, he wouldn’t have to go head-on with Vegeta for her affections any time soon. “Why, to think that this level alone is twice the size of Red!”

Bulma nodded, agreeing with him. Harbour Colony was a goliath of a space station, so big that Red Station looked like a mere transport ship in comparison. It was like a big, self contained city, and while she’d initially been thrilled with all that Harbour had to offer, Bulma was beginning to feel like nothing more than a harried hen mother, clucking after her brood of wayward chicks.

“Hey, there are the twins,” Dende tugged her hand, and pointed with his other, “with Krillin.” Bulma caught a flash of Eighteen’s blonde hair and sighed with relief. Good old Krillin; the monk could always be counted on to lend a hand. Though he was maybe a bit too much of a pushover, Bulma reflected, as she watched him stagger under the weight of the twins’ purchases while they walked along, unencumbered.

“Good eye, Dende,” Bulma sighed with relief and turned back to the station map that was helpfully tacked to the walls at the entrances to each level. She knew it made her look like a complete tourist, an easy target, but this level was significantly scummier than the beautiful plaza they’d begun with, with its faux open air feel and bright, cheerful stalls. The artificial sun shone here too, they hadn’t gone that far down, but there was much more of a mercenary air to this level; it was like a gateway to the slums on the bottom decks, and Vegeta had expressly warned her not to dip much lower. She wished that he’d come out today, but he and Nappa were far too stubborn to enjoy the rare dose of civilization and were busy beating each other’s brains out in the still-defunct gravity room. “We need to head this way, I think,” Bulma said, turning to point along the street, “and turn left when we see a pub called _The Wandering Hurlagh_.”

“What’s a hurlagh?” Dende asked, and Bulma shrugged.

“Hell if I know,” she sighed, then covered her mouth briefly with the hand that wasn’t holding Dende’s. The boy simply laughed and Bulma groaned; she’d always known she’d make a terrible mother. “Hey! Krillin!” she called, trying to catch his attention with little success. His entire focus was, predictably, Eighteen. “KRILLIN!” she shrieked a little louder and a few steps closer, and several people turned to look at her.

“Zat kid for zale?” one bold stranger asked her, rather casually she thought, for a man trying to buy a child. He was easily two feet away but his face was right next to hers, stretched out on a long, sinewy neck.

“No! Of course not!” Bulma spat, defensively shoving Dende behind her calves. “I wasn’t talking to you, anyway!”

“Meeeeh,” the stranger replied, his voice an odd, rolling kind of vibration, like blowing wax paper folded over a comb. “Wuz juzt azking.” He shruggled and shuffled on, various lumps and bumps shifting up and down beneath his clothing. She shuddered, hoping that he didn’t find anyone with a different answer than herself, and tugged Dende toward Krillin and the twins.

“Geez, what does it take to get your attention?” she demanded, thwapping Krillin on the back of the head with her free hand. “I just got propositioned over there by some creep who wanted to _buy_ Dende! What if he hadn’t taken no for an answer?”

“Oh, I’m uh...sorry,” Krillin sputtered, feeling Eighteen’s impassive gaze on his back as he spun to face Bulma. He wondered what she was thinking, whether or not she was judging him for his slip up. Why, Bulma could likely have been murdered, two feet to his left, and he’d not have noticed her screams. He’d been asked along to the parts market particularly for protection’s sake, and while Bulma wore her ki-gun plainly visible in a thigh holster, there were probably many people in this area of Harbour Colony who wouldn’t quite find it a deterrent.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Bulma relented, seeing his embarrassment. “You’re doing such a good job helping the twins after all.” She winked at this, causing Krillin’s cheeks to burn even more than they already were, but behind him Eighteen spoke up.

“Yes,” she said softly, and no one could tell if she was being sincere with that flat voice of hers, but the twins hadn’t shown any signs of sarcasm so far. “Krillin is very helpful.”

As if in slow motion, with his heart in his throat, Krillin turned his head to find Eighteen looking directly at him. Her face was as blank as it always was, but he felt like there was something there this time, some sort of acknowledgement of his existence. The breeze from a fan in a nearby stall ruffled her hair, and as she moved to push it back behind her ear, he could swear that time had slowed, just like in a movie. Now if only he could find a field of flowers, he thought sardonically, perhaps they could run toward each other before time resumed its normal pace.

“Anyway,” Bulma said loudly, interrupting his daydream, “we really need to get a move on. If I go back tonight without new parts for the gravity simulator, you-know-who will have my head.”

“What would he want with it?” Seventeen wondered aloud, and Bulma couldn’t help but giggle.

“I mean he would kill me, Seventeen,” she explained, “but it’s only an expression that means he’d be mad at me. He wouldn’t actually.”

“We would not let that happen,” the twins said as one, their oh-so-similar voices blending eerily together and though there was very little inflection, Bulma knew that they were serious. She wished she knew just what Sixteen had told them, that they were so fervently protective of her.

“Well I appreciate that, of course, but like I said, Vegeta would never hurt me. Now,” Bulma said briskly, “let’s get going.”

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Zarbon wisely remained where he was, with his back to the blue haired woman and her companions. He hadn’t really been paying attention to their conversation until he’d heard her say _Vegeta_ and at that point, he’d gone into full-alert mode. He looked around him, as unobtrusively as possible, wondering if anyone else had heard the woman blab out that name. As far as stations went, Harbour Colony was pretty safe for resistance members, but one could never be too careful. There was always the chance that someone in the crush might not take so kindly, might not think twice about calling the authorities and collecting the reward.

Cautiously, he pulled up his own hood against the possibility that someone might recognize and report him. There was an enormous bounty on his head – almost as big as the one on Vegeta – and he knew why. Frieza would have been beyond enraged at his escape, and eager to retrieve and punish him for it. And considering the state of his captivity before, he was in no hurry to go back to worse.

Zarbon hunched his shoulders and faced the ground, practiced in the way of hiding his face as so many people here were. He waited a few moments before setting off after the strangers, keeping his gaze fixed on the bright shine of the woman’s blue hair. She was either very special or incredibly naive, and he was willing to put money on the latter. No one who knew Vegeta was so confident that he wouldn’t hurt them, not even his crew of saiyans.

Halfway down the street, Orly caught up with him. “Zarbon,” the blonde man breathed heavily through his nose. His face was flushed and he was trying to catch his breath; it was obvious he’d been running. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He reached out a hand to grasp Zarbon’s wrist, as though to stop him in the street.

“Why?” Zarbon asked, though he did not stop, instead forcing Orly to walk beside him as he continued to follow the small group. He did not want to lose them, though he did spare Orly a quick look before turning his eyes forward once more.

“I...I wanted to apologize,” Orly said timidly, misreading Zarbon’s distraction for irritation, “for earlier. For our fight.” His fingers crept down from Zarbon’s wrist, to mingle hesitantly together with Zarbon’s, and the green man was surprised.

“Are you sorry because you think that you upset me?” he asked, “Or because I am upset with you?”

“What?” Orly tugged hard on Zarbon’s hand. “For the love of – will you quit walking? Please, can we just stop and talk? I’m sorry for this morning; isn’t that enough?”

“It’s not really the same thing,” Zarbon replied, and Orly’s strength was no match for his, even in his untransformed state. This was a man who’d never engaged in more than petty brawls, and while he could probably handle his own in a minor scuffle, Orly was no seasoned warrior. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter. Once I have the money for a ship, I won’t have to tag along with you anymore.”

“Zarbon, don’t be silly, you don’t have to go anywhere.”

“I do, actually,” he wasn’t trying to be cold, not really, even though that was how he was coming off. It was just that his mind was made up; the second he’d heard that woman talking about Vegeta, he’d known that he really couldn’t wait any longer to be away, to be out and taking action against Frieza. His blood thrummed, ready for a fight, and would not be satisfied by simply spreading words. He’d made the right decision by coming here in search of a ship. “If you’re going to come with me now, you’d better hurry up and stop trying to drag me backward,” Zarbon snapped, a little crossly, as Orly tried to halt him once more. “I’m following someone. If you really must speak to me, let it be later.” He squinted forward, having lost sight of the blue haired woman. Her companion’s blonde head shone in the dull crowd, however, and Zarbon dragged Orly around the corner after them.

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Bulma tried to keep her excitement to herself as she plucked a circuit board from a pile of similar units, holding it carefully by the edges lest she do any damage. It wasn’t the same as what had been ruined, but it looked near enough that she might be able to alter it to suit her needs. Now all she needed were a few more of the same, and she could head home with her prize. She understood that not being able to train at full difficulty was very frustrating for him, but Vegeta’s complaints were really beginning to get on her nerves and his grouchiness was spreading to the rest of the crew. His loud proclamations that they would all die a horrible death by Frieza’s hand if he wasn’t able to train hard, and soon, were not helping anyone.

“Excuse me,” Bulma said in standard, carrying her precious gem to the dingy little shop’s proprietor, “have you got anything else in this configuration? Or even similar?” Dende trailed behind her, staying close like a good child. Krillin waited with the twins outside; they’d taken one look inside the dingy little shop and simultaneously declared that their clothes would be ruined.

“Hrrrrrrmmmmmm,” the little old lady peered at Bulma’s proffered board through a pair of inch-thick spectacles. “Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

“Uh...” Bulma looked at the crab-faced creature and then at Dende with a shrug. He hid a giggle behind his hand and from three racks over, where he was hiding, Zarbon’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seen the little namek boy in the crowded street, short as he was, but he recognized that toothy little smile in a second as Guru’s young protégé, the boy he’d sort of saved on Chisal. That meant that the woman with him, she was wherever Guru had fled to, when they all assumed he’d go to Vengeance. “So, the board?” Zarbon heard the woman ask. “I don’t need anything super fancy, just this size and general configuration. I can make changes if I need to.”

“Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” the old woman hummed, and Bulma leaned forward, planting her hands on the rickety counter in frustration and leaned in close.

“Hrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmm?” she questioned, and Zarbon tried not to laugh behind the shelf. Orly stood beside him, arms crossed, wondering who this pretty girl was that _his_ lover seemed so enamoured of. She was so pale, pasty from lack of sun and not the pleasing ivory of a naturally wan skin tone. Still though, she had good features and a nice figure, and if he hadn’t been so irascibly jealous, he might have gone over to flirt.

“I do,” the wizened shopkeep finally answered. She hopped down from her stool, standing no taller than Dende on her feet, and shuffled over to one wall. Bulma watched, wincing in sympathy for the poor, manhandled parts as the woman dug carelessly through a bin of what appeared to be junk. “Here is one,” she tossed a board over her shoulder and Bulma scrambled to catch it, “and another.” This time she turned and handed it over normally, unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on Bulma’s poor, thumping heart. “Maybe one more,” she stood and shuffled across the tiny shop, passing right by Zarbon, who hid his face in the shelf, and Orly, who stared openly at Bulma as she went by. Bulma winked and he didn’t quite know how to react.

“Thank you so much. You are a real life-saver!” Bulma grinned as she handed her money to the old creature, back at the counter. She was met with another noncommittal hum, but she was simply too pleased at having found what she needed to care. Instead, she responded with an enthusiastic “Hrrrrmmm!” of her own as she took Dende’s hand and breezed out the door. Her good mood was soon spoiled as she realized Krillin and the twins had disappeared to parts unknown.

“They can’t have gone far,” Dende said hopefully, seeing the look of irritation that was forming on Bulma’s face. “We’ll find them!” He gave her hand a squeeze, then let out a puff of breath as someone knocked into him from behind.

Dende gaped upward and Zarbon stared down at him in surprise. He’d been too busy hissing at Orly for making eye contact that he hadn’t been paying attention, and he really hadn’t been expecting the woman to stop right outside the door.

“Oh, hello again,” Orly smiled at Bulma, smoothly breaking the tension and drawing everyone’s attention toward himself.

“Oh...OH,” Bulma twiddled her hair awkwardly, the bag containing her boards dangling clunkily from her wrist. “Sorry, sorry. You guys are both pretty cute, but I didn’t mean anything in there. I’m attached. To someone.”

“Not a problem,” Orly’s voice was silky and Zarbon was suddenly very grateful for the other man’s presence. He probably wouldn’t be much if it ever came to a fight, but he was certainly a smooth talker. “Though certainly a shame.”

“Hey, wait!” Bulma’s eyes widened and she pointed her finger at Orly in surprise. “I know you!”

“No,” Zarbon noticed the first hint of unease creep into Orly’s voice, “I’m sure you don’t.”

“I do, we listen to all of your broadcasts! You’re Orly!” She’d said it quietly enough – deliberately so – that Zarbon figured no one around them would have heard, but the sudden panic on Orly’s face made the woman take a step back. He sprang at her, too quickly for her to dodge even had she not been laden with parcels and a child.

“Bulma!” Dende shrieked as Orly whipped her around, covering her mouth with one hand and dragging her backwards against his chest. Dende clung hard, refusing to let go and in seconds Orly had them around the corner of the shabby building and into the alley.

“Idiot!” Zarbon hissed, glancing covertly around before ducking in after them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Orly swallowed thickly, and Bulma felt the movement slide from his neck down into his chest, pressed tightly against her back. She tried to let go of Dende, willing him to find Krillin and the twins, but he clung stubbornly on and she couldn’t get words out from behind her captor’s hand. “I...” Orly started, but was unable to finish as a blonde woman dropped down on him from above.

“Eighteen!” Dende cried, just as Seventeen plowed straight into Zarbon’s back, leaving Krillin to dart in and snag the two non-fighters.

Zarbon was quicker to react than Orly; he’d turned in time to successfully block Seventeen’s next blow and had countered with a weak punch of his own. Orly was having no such luck, and from the corner of his eye, Zarbon watched his blonde companion smack face-first into the side of a wall. Someone was shrieking for them all to stop, either the kid or the woman, maybe both, but the adrenaline was pumping hard and fast through Zarbon’s veins. It had been too long since he’d been in a fight, and he was aching to pay the stranger back for the bruise he could feel forming on his back. Grinning, he feinted with his left fist, and plowed his right into Seventeen’s cheek. He wasn’t expecting the little bald one to return and take him out at the knees.

“We’re not enemies!” Krillin panted, jumping back away from Zarbon’s falling form. “Seventeen, don’t!” he snapped, as the android made ready to strike again. “Eighteen!” he called, and was surprised when she immediately stopped what she was doing and stepped back from Orly’s slumped body.

“These men attacked Bulma and Dende,” she said, and Bulma was glad that she’d broken the twins of the ‘mother’ thing. She didn’t want her two studly attackers to think the wrong thing about her. She was hot, yes, but not yet ready to be a MILF.

“Pure panic,” Zarbon said from his spot on the ground, and everyone turned their eyes to him. He was breathing heavily and his carefully gelled hair was awfully mussed but he appeared otherwise unharmed. “We meant nothing by it. Hello again,” he nodded at Dende, who hid behind Bulma’s leg, “Pleased to see you’re alive. Sorry about Guru.” Oh no. He hadn’t meant that to sound so trite. He winced and pulled the hood back up, vainly trying to fix his hair beneath it.

“You must be Zarbon,” Bulma said, for she’d both seen pictures of him and knew from Dende how he’d actually helped during the raid on Guru’s compound. Her voice was not unkind, and yet Zarbon noticed how she kept the boy close, her hand on his head to keep him behind her. He did not have to wonder if she knew about his role in the destruction of the child’s home. He also noticed the gun strapped to her thigh and the fact that she’d yet to draw it, and felt a little hope. 

“We need to move,” Krillin interrupted. “I feel some decent power levels coming, and they’re not on our side.”

“Ahh, someone must have heard our commotion,” Zarbon hauled himself up and stretched out a hand to Orly. “Oh my, got you in the balls, did she?” He smirked up at Eighteen’s impassive face. “Well, under the circumstances, I can’t say I’m too distressed. Come on, up with you.”

“I broke his leg,” Eighteen said, and Zarbon swore.

“Well shit, we have no choice, we can’t leave him here to get caught,” Bulma leaned into the alleyway, her sharp eyes taking in the crowd. “I can see three of them, but there might be more. Seventeen, you get under Orly’s right shoulder and Eighteen under the left. Zarbon, you good? Okay. Krillin, grab the bags. Everybody move!” she ordered, and Krillin thought to himself that she’d been spending way too much time with Vegeta lately. “Dende?” She crouched down in front of the boy, her hands on his small shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Dende nodded. He brought his little green hands up to rest on Bulma’s and squeezed her fingers. “If he does anything, Vegeta will...” he stopped short. He’d intended to finish the sentence with _kill him_ , and it was probably the truth, but the fact that the sentiment existed within his brain was bothersome. Disturbing. He wasn’t supposed to think like that.

“Vegeta will kick his butt,” Bulma finished, leaning forward to touch her forehead briefly to his, as her dad used to do when she was young. Zarbon watched, thoroughly bothered and confused by this utterly domestic scene, all the more because it involved mention of Vegeta.

“Wait, wait, wait! We’re taking them with us? Back to Red?” Krillin was incredulous, practically hissing out his last words. “After this one practically assaulted you?”

“Oh Krillin calm down,” Bulma scoffed and stood back up, “haven’t you noticed yet? The cute ones are never truly evil.” She reached over and patted his bald head as she winked at Zarbon and Orly.

“No way, no way! He’s going to flip out, and of course he’s not going to take it out on _you!_ ” Krillin was shaking his head so fast it was dizzying. “Or Dende, or the twins because if he breaks them you’ll be pissed. He’s going to take it out on _me_ on the _mat_ and I really, _really_ hate going in the regeneration tank!”

“Don’t be such a worry wart. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m not!”

“We need to go,” Eighteen cut in, from her spot beneath Orly’s shoulder. She pointed to the entrance of the alley, where several men had gathered.

“Shit.” Zarbon shrugged further into his hood and reached over to tug Orly’s up too.

“Hey, you!” one of the authority officers shouted as he started down the alley toward them. The rest remained in position, ready to draw their weapons or launch into a physical attack.  

“No problem here, sir!” Bulma stood straight and puffed her chest out, shooing the others behind her. “Our friend just had a little too much Alkabrew at lunch,” she channelled her mother’s charming spirit and batted her eyelashes as the crowd came closer. “We’ll just be on our way!”

“Hold it right there!” Damn. Apparently her flirting skills needed work.

“Everybody look away!” Krillin shouted, jumping in between the group and their soon-to-be pursuers. He held up his hands, fingers splayed out toward his face, and Bulma hustled her little group the other way. “Solar Flare!” Krillin shouted, and a blinding flash of light sent the authorities stumbling, all clutching at their eyes.

“Okay guys, hurry it up!” Bulma insisted, dragging Dende along as Krillin scrambled to gather all of their purchases again before catching up with the group. “The effects of a solar flare won’t last long. We’ve really got to get out of here, because when they can see again, they’re going to be pissed. Nice move, by the way,” Bulma added, turning her head sideways to address Krillin as she ran.

“No problem,” he lobbed back, grinning. It had been a stroke of brilliance, if his opinion counted, and he was extremely glad that it had worked. Solar Flare was one of Tien’s moves and Krillin had yet to really get it down pat, though his approximations were pretty decent.

“It’s this way to the docking level,” Zarbon called out, ducking around a corner. “I know a good shortcut, through here.” He heaved open a heavy service door and beckoned them through. Bulma leaned in, wincing at the stark, fluorescent lights and the bare steel walls within. Creepy.

“Okay,” she breathed, plunging through the door with Dende clinging fast. Two steps in Bulma stopped and turned, creating a minor traffic jam in the entrance. “I’m trusting you,” she tapped Zarbon on the nose with one finger, and waggled it in his face, “so this had better not be a trap. I’ll sic Eighteen on you again.” She spun on her toes, and the normally agile namekian child was nearly dragged off his feet when she began sprinting down the hall. The others followed a little more slowly, held up as they were by Orly’s injuries, but Bulma didn’t care, nor did she heed their calls to wait up and slow down. She was suddenly and desperately in need of safety, of comfort and isolation from those who might do her harm. The faster they were all back at Red, the better.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  Sorry for the wait! It’s been an odd month, and I had some wonky plot points coming up that I to work out before I could figure out some things in this chapter. Apologies if things come across a bit stilted.

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PRESENT DAY

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Nappa stalked into the kitchen, irritation seeming to come off him in waves that would have sent any normal person running for cover. Dr. Briefs, however, was not only abnormal but also completely and totally oblivious to standard social cues. He puttered about at the counter, fiddling with the coffee machine and trying to remember which cupboard it was that Chichi insisted on hiding the filters in. His wife normally did this sort of thing for him, but with her out and about in the colony, he was forced to fend for himself.

“Fancy a cup?” Dr. Briefs asked, triumphantly grasping the box of coffee filters and holding them out in illustration. Nappa simply turned and glared for a few seconds, then went back to rummaging in the fridge. Vegeta was in a fine state, bouncing off the walls in the inoperative gravity room and after kicking his ass, he’d cussed Nappa out for being too weak, and sent him packing. He might have trained alone, he supposed, but he was far too irritated and had no hint of the patience that would have required. He’d briefly sought out Piccolo, only to realize that the Earth namek had gone away too, out to enjoy the beautiful day. Pah. Every day was beautiful, Nappa thought, when you were on a rich, climate controlled space station.

Dr. Briefs waited patiently for the coffee to brew, all the while watching Nappa carry his finds over to the table. The saiyan ate indiscriminately, tucking into leftover roast, slices of uncooked brillig bacon, raw eggs all mixed up with sprigot powder, and a torte that Dr. Briefs knew was supposed to be tonight’s dessert. He wondered if he could maybe snatch a few bites before it was gone.

“How do you take your coffee?” Briefs asked, plunking the full pot, two mugs, and all the fixings on a tray before carrying it over to the table. He poured and placed a mug in front of Nappa before taking some for himself. “A cup of Joe will cure what ails you!” he said, dumping in several spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream.

“Joe?” Nappa sniffed and took a cautious sip, grimacing at the bitter taste of the strong, black coffee. “It doesn’t taste like meat. Bulma says this is made from beans.” He accepted the older man’s offer of cream and sugar, topping his cup up with plenty of each in imitation. He took another sip and decided it was much better this way. Could maybe use some meat broth though, or even some hot blood, he thought.

“I’m surprised to see you up here,” Dr. Briefs said, and Nappa snapped to attention, realizing that the diminutive doctor had actually been talking this whole time, lips barely visible beneath his twitching moustache. Human women were very odd, Nappa decided, if a hot piece like Mrs. Briefs had, without the impetus of some sort of bond, chosen to spend her days with this piddling, purple-haired, runt of a man. He squinted across the table, trying to see what a female might find attractive there, though to Dr. Briefs it looked as though Nappa was paying very close attention, indeed.

“You see,” the doctor continued, unaware that the brute across the table was sizing him up and debating the pros and cons of murdering him and stealing his wife, “I thought you would be down below with that Vegeta fellow. Unfriendly lad, but decent. Suits Bulma. Yamcha was a good boy too, but never serious enough. The wife’s thrilled, you know. Grandkids this, grandkids that.” He took a sip and paused to wipe his moustache on his sleeve, leaving a light brown stain on the white fabric. “Do you suppose they’ll have tails? Awkward business, diapering a baby with a tail.” He looked up from his coffee cup to find the big saiyan staring perplexedly over at him. “You know, a diaper.” He gestured toward his lower body with both hands, making a sort of band-like motion and hoping it might come across.

“I know what a diaper is, you old coot.” Nappa snapped, even though he might actually have been older than the human across the table. Of course he knew what a diaper was! He’d raised cubs, hadn’t he? What Dr. Briefs had mistaken for confusion over semantics was in fact confusion over why the hell he was jabbering on about them in the first place.

“Oh, good. Well maybe you can help if those two ever get around to babies.” Dr. Briefs reached for the pot of coffee and topped up his mug, unaware of the euphoria he’d created inside the bulky saiyan, who was just then imagining the honour of being asked to train Vegeta’s offspring. Little mini-princes, who in Nappa’s dreaming inherited none of Bulma’s inherent human-ness and un-saiyan features. Gods of Vegetasei, he thought, eyeing up the doctor’s lavender mop of hair, imagine if the cubs inherited her colouring! The mere thought was laughable, however, as Nappa was certain that Vegeta’s far superior saiyan genetics would win out.

Nappa’s daydreams were cut short as a warning trill sounded throughout the ship, closely followed by the staid, computerized voice of the ship’s security system. “Unidentified ki signatures entering docking bay,” it said, and Nappa shot out of his chair, spilling coffee all across the table in his haste. Dr. Briefs mopped ineffectually at it for a moment, his attention clearly on the trail of the bolting saiyan, before he too shuffled out of the room and toward the bay. “Number: two,” the ship’s computer continued, “accompanied by known ki signatures: Bulma, Dende, Krillin. Android Seventeen, identified by homing signal. Android Eighteen, identified by homing signal. Threat status: Medium.”

Dr. Briefs breathed a sigh of relief and reached up to scratch Kitty, who purred and pushed back against his hand. A threat status of medium meant that of the two reported foreign power levels, at least one of them was high, but it also meant that the known power levels appeared normal and healthy to the computer’s diagnostic sensors. Damage levels were a little more tricky to detect in the androids, who had no ki that could be felt or measured in the traditional way. Bulma was working on that and she’d so far managed to identify the subtle electrical signals given off by their cells, which were themselves nanotechnology, but she’d yet to get beyond mere presence into measuring strength and health. Even that accomplishment, once reached, would do little good for the other fighters, who would still be unable to sense the androids without the use of some as-yet-to-be-invented, modified scouter. Or maybe a brain chip, like the ones used for language, implanted only in their allies so that the technology couldn’t possibly be used against them. That came with more problems, however, as they’d then need to figure out just where to implant the chip. The Briefs were geniuses, scientific masterminds, but unfortunately their strengths did not lie with biology. The language centers of the brain had long since been mapped, but neither of them knew just which portions might be involved in sensing ki.

By the time Dr. Briefs made it to the cargo bay, the alarm had stopped ringing, but that didn’t seem to ease the clustered Nameks, who were all whispering to each other, pointing through the doorway into the bay at whoever was there. It was not a very good sign, but then again the Nameks hardly ever seemed pleased about anything. There were a good few among them, determined to be pleasant, but the group of them had been through quite a rough time so the crew had been trying not to take it all too personally.

Bulma was just typing some commands into the computer as her father entered, and before he could even say hello she’d already shot him a look that said it all; everything’s okay. She’d already locked out all the ship’s computers to foreign users and the diagnostic systems had not picked up any radio signals that might have indicated tracking devices.

“Your scouters, please,” Bulma walked over to the two strange men she’d brought in, holding out her hands. “I’m sorry, but for the safety of my crew, I can’t have you contacting anyone while you’re aboard.”

“And just why are they aboard?” Nappa snarled, glaring across the bay at Zarbon, who stood warily near the door, watching as the little namek daubed blood from Orly’s face.

“Get Vegeta,” Bulma snapped, glaring at the big saiyan in response.

“That is not necessary,” said the man himself, as he shouldered through the crowd of nameks in the doorway. He was shiny with sweat, though not as dripping as he would have been had the gravity room been functioning properly. He stopped in the middle of the room, frowning at their guests, and then at Bulma. “Tracking devices? Communication pieces?”

“None,” Bulma said, holding up the scouters that she had confiscated. “These are ordinary issue and the computer is not picking up any additional radio signals.”

“Good,” Vegeta returned stiffly, and Zarbon’s gaze slid from one to the other, curiously. Zarbon had never known the prince to be anything but distant when it came to those not of his race.

“I don’t know why you’d ever doubt me.” Bulma winked and tossed her hair prettily, and all Vegeta did was roll his eyes. Zarbon got the sense that, had the pair been alone, she _might actually_ have garnered a response from the surly saiyan. “I am a genius, after all.”

“Call the others back here,” Vegeta said, instead of the playful reply on the tip of his tongue, and Bulma sulkily obeyed. “Brat, away from there,” he snapped his fingers and after a moment’s hesitation, Dende scurried away from the injured stranger to Bulma’s side, where Seventeen and Eighteen had earlier moved after depositing their burden on the floor. Krillin guarded the door, though he was surrounded by a small wall of bags and parcels that he’d hastily dropped upon entering.

“Oh relax, little prince,” Zarbon said airily, waving his hand about in an elegant fashion far unsuited to his bedraggled appearance. “It was your little team of miscreants that practically kidnapped us, not the other way around, so don’t go getting any ideas.” He put his hand on his hip, a practiced pose that hid his uncertainty and nervousness. Going with Bulma had seemed like a decent idea at the time. She was so much the opposite of threatening that it hadn’t ever really sunk in that he was headed right for the monster’s lair. Vegeta, however, was a different story. He’d changed, that much was visible. Something in the cut of his jaw, or the streamlined bulk of his muscles, Zarbon wasn’t sure, but it was there. He’d seen it in the video recordings that circulated throughout the universe and now, in person, it was so much stronger.

A sense of purpose.

Zarbon’s skin prickled with awareness, the realization that the Vegeta before him was as much a stranger as though they had just met for the first time. It was disconcerting, but if there was one thing he was used to, it was that feeling of being ever so slightly off balance with those around him, never sure what they were thinking or about to do. Frieza had made it his mission in life, to keep Zarbon on his toes.

“Nappa,” Vegeta barked, and watching the big saiyan spring to attention, Zarbon felt comforted that at least _that_ would never change, “secure our guests in the gravity chamber for now. You two,” he turned his attention back to Zarbon and Orly, “if you mean no harm in your presence here, surely you will not object. Nappa, if they give you so much as a peep of protest, kill them.”

“Vegeta!” Bulma gasped, “Orly needs medical attention!”

“Orly, hmm?” The saiyan prince cocked his head, looking severely unimpressed with what he saw. “He is not dying. His wounds can wait until Sixteen returns.” He snapped his fingers and Nappa was behind Zarbon in an instant, grasping his wrists and twisting his arms painfully back.

“C’mon short stuff,” Nappa jerked his head toward Orly, “gimme a hand.”

“M...me?” Krillin stammered, pointing at himself. Bulma shot him a pleading look, as though he might actually have been able to refuse Nappa in the first place, and he sighed in acquiescence. He knew Bulma hoped that his presence might have meant the two captives were treated a little more gently and for his part he’d do what he could, but if Nappa was in the mood to give someone a beating....well, he knew it was cowardly, but that Zarbon guy looked like he could handle his own, and Krillin wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of dragging along _yet another_ paragon of masculine good looks. He was hard up enough as it was without introducing another option for Eighteen.

.

.

“You know, Gohan, you don’t have to wear that hood if it’s too hot for you,” Goku said reaching out to ruffle the fabric covering his son’s head. Gohan yelped and reached for the hood with both hands, violently tugging it down against his scalp and away from his father’s hand.

“I do actually,” he said stiffly, gripping the fabric so tight that his knuckles were going white with the strain.

“Because Vegeta told you to?” Goku asked, surprising even himself with the sharpness in his tone. He hadn’t meant to come across so harshly, but watching Vegeta order everyone around before they’d been allowed to leave that morning had kind of irritated him. And besides that, everyone was feeling a little bit surly, with the gravity machine being broken and all. Goku was especially frustrated because it happened just as he’d finally been given the OK to begin training properly again after his illness. He was feeling restless and antsy, and shamefully, not above picking a fight with his eight year old son.

“Here we are, boys!” Chichi sat down at the table, all smiles and completely unaware of the potential scene she’d just interrupted. She passed out the iced treats she’d just bought and unwrapped her own, pleased as punch to be out with her family in the sunshine, even if it was fake. It didn’t take long, however, for her to discover that something unhappy had transpired in the few minutes she’d taken at the vendor’s cart. Gohan was hunched down into his hood, which in itself was not unusual, as Vegeta had promised death and destruction should any of the saiyans be recognized, but he was working hard to keep a frown from his face, and not succeeding. Goku, beside him was stiff and the fact that three seconds after receiving it, his popsicle was still in his hand rather than his belly, was a definite sign that something was off.

Chichi narrowed her eyes, trying to work it out. She knew that tensions had been running high since the gravity machine console’s untimely demise, but for the past few hours her boys had been happy, cheery, like old times. The three of them were a regular get along gang, and food, of all things, should normally have _increased_ the good spirits. “Goku, sweetie,” Chichi turned a mega-watt smile on her husband, though even the most casual listener could hear the steel backbone in her voice that meant _this is not a request_ , “why don’t you go grab us some drinks?” She dug some credits from her purse and pointed to the longest line in the square.Goku shrugged and did as he was told, and the minute he was out of earshot Chichi turned to her son, ready to give him the gears. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Gohan said, a little too insistently as he hunched further into his hood. She felt bad for him, knowing how nice a day it was and how hot he must be in there, but for once she’d actually agreed with Vegeta about something. The desire for a semi-normal day out with her family had been terribly strong, but she was well aware of the likelihood that the saiyans might be recognized and everyone put into danger because of it.

“Don’t lie to your mother,” she said, which at least earned her a few seconds of eye contact before he retreated once more into the hood, resting his chin on crossed arms on the table. “Well?”

“It really wasn’t anything...” Gohan muttered into his forearm. “Dad just...doesn’t get it. About Vegeta, or about being a saiyan...he just wants me to be the same kid from Earth.”

“Oh, Gohan,” Chichi let out an airy sigh and scooted her chair closer to his, draping an arm around his shoulders and hugging him closer to her side, “your dad loves you, know he does. Goku’s just never been one to follow orders; he’s not accustomed to sitting on the sidelines.”

“You know...” Gohan said slowly, pausing as he tried to think of the right words to describe just how he felt, “Nappa and Radditz, they never acted like it was the sidelines. Of course Vegeta’s stronger than us, of course he’s the leader but...” he cut himself short with a frustrated noise. “I’m just sick of the tug of war. I don’t know what he wants me to do.”

“Where have I seen this before?” Chichi smiled, a rare self-effacing moment for her, and Gohan couldn’t help the hint of a grin that tugged on one side of his mouth. “Excuse yourself when he gets back and I’ll talk to him, okay?”

Goku returned shortly, smiling as he plunked three cans on the table, ice cold and dripping with condensation. He handed the change back to his wife, and as she was tucking it back securely into the pouch at her waist, Gohan scuttled off with a hasty, “Gotta pee.”

“He’d follow Vegeta to the ends of the Universe, wouldn’t he?” Goku said, no prodding necessary, as he watched his son’s cloaked back disappear into the crowd. Chichi heaved a deep sigh and took his hand in hers; it wasn’t as though she particularly liked it either, only that she’d already fought and accepted defeat in the matter.

“Yes,” she said, giving Goku’s fingers a squeeze.

“I never thought that you, of all people, would be okay with that.” Goku turned his hand over, catching Chichi’s within his grip instead of the other way around.

“I’m not,” she shrugged, “not really. Nappa, of all people, told me one day that Gohan was as much theirs as he was mine though, and it galls me to admit it, but it’s true. They didn’t do so bad a job with him though, and if nothing else I’m happy just to see that he lived.” Chichi saw Gohan slip back through the crowd, pause, and she nodded just the tiniest bit to let him know it was okay to come back. “You’ve got to give it time,” she said to Goku. “I know you’re a bit jealous of Vegeta, but the antagonism is only forcing Gohan to choose sides, and right now, I’m not so sure that you’d win.”

“Jealous?” Goku looked at his wife with wide eyes. Jealous? He was not! Was he? But Gohan was back, two feet away now and he couldn’t demand that Chichi explain that comment, even though he really, really wanted to.

Just as Gohan was sitting and reaching for his drink, however, all three of their radio communicators went off in unison, and Bulma’s voice came crackling through. “All units back to the ship,” she said, sounding very official, “we have a situation folks.”

.

“How _dare_ they just toss us in here!” Orly seethed, pounding a fist on the floor, “Treating us like enemies...like prisoners!” He winced as the movement jarred his injuries, and sat frowning at the wall instead.

“Calm down, Orly,” Zarbon sighed and delicately pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. All of Orly’s complaining was beginning to get on his nerves, made more annoying by the fact that it had only begun after their captors appeared to be out of ear shot. “What did you think was going to happen?” he asked, and Orly winced at the sharp tone in his voice, “that they were going to welcome you with open arms and praise your greatness like all these poor fools in the colonies? You’ve been too long away from the fight, if you were ever in it in the first place.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re a spoiled brat who thinks he’s big stuff because he’s been in a few minor scuffles,” Zarbon snapped back, “and dare I say it, your ego is rival to Vegeta’s, to Frieza’s. You’ve got this hero complex and why? Because a bunch of know-nothing, outer-circle bumpkins hang on your every word? Words that aren’t even your own!” He was on a roll, and though a tiny part in the back of his brain was telling him it was enough, his lips just kept on moving. “You talk so big, but the things I’ve seen, the stories I could tell you...you have _no idea,_ ” he hissed, “what it’s really like out there.”

“Oh boy,” Bulma said to Dende as she peeked through the door of the gravity room, unable to hear what was being said but reading the tension in both men’s bodies, “we either came at an awful time, or the best one possible.” She straightened her shoulders and winked at Dende, who swallowed back his fear and did the same. “Break it up, boys!” Bulma shouted as she threw open the door with one hand, carefully balancing a tray of food on the other. “We brought dinner, so no funny business,” she added, setting down her heavy tray with a grunt, and hurrying to help Dende, who was staggering in under his own load. “Okay! Sorry about the lack of a table and chairs,” she slipped out for a few seconds, grabbing some pillows for the captives to sit on, “but we at least have plates and cutlery, like proper, civilized people.” She turned, and noticed both men staring, open mouthed, at the gargantuan heaps of steaming food, and felt herself blush. “Too much? We’re sort of used to saiyan appetites around here.”

“We are most certainly _not_ saiyans,” Zarbon sneered, not really sure how to proceed in this situation. All his years of knowing Vegeta and the others had been tempered by the fact that they were all bound in Frieza’s service, and when he’d initially found out Vengeance’s true identity, he’d entertained thoughts of joining up with Vegeta, aiding him, together being strong enough to take out the monster. Seeing the prince again, however, brought back all the old and bad memories of being in Frieza’s service together. They’d been pitted against each other for so long, always at each other’s throats, that he wasn’t entirely certain that civility was an option for him. Even with Orly, he’d reverted to his old, snappish ways, and Vegeta’s was a much more grating personality, or so he thought. The prince, too, was not exactly known for his diplomatic skills.

“You’re right,” Bulma responded to his snipe with a tone so flat and mechanical that he wasn’t sure whether she was simply stating fact, or if he should feel insulted, “you’re not.” She laid a protective hand on Dende’s bald head and he looked up at her, adoration in itself, and Zarbon knew he was in trouble. He’d been the officer in charge of the raid on Guru’s compound, directly responsible for the deaths of several of Guru’s followers. He’d been genuine in his desire not to kill the boy before, but he hadn’t been so discerning when it had come to the adults beyond Guru. Some of them had had to die to make the raid seem real, but Zarbon had no idea whether the child’s father or brothers had been among the dead that day.

“You should be so lucky,” Dende mumbled, just loud enough for Zarbon to hear him, and then quickly resumed hiding his face against Bulma’s thigh. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d come down here with her, knowing that he would have to face Zarbon again. He was trying to be brave about it, trying to be an adult and to do the right thing, but it was terribly hard. Zarbon had spared his life, yes, but he’d also led the attack that had chased them out and cut their numbers, and now he was supposed to be a good guy? Then again, hadn’t he felt the same sense of intense mistrust toward Vegeta, who carried his own past of nightmare deeds along with him?

Zarbon sighed and dug in, wisely keeping his mouth shut after that last comment. He could hear Vegeta and Nappa training out in the facility beyond the reinforced room that he and Orly had been contained in, but without his scouter he really couldn’t tell what was going on beyond the occasional flash of motion visible through the porthole in the door.

“Vegeta wants to talk to you, once you’re done eating,” Bulma said, leaning her butt against the console and watching the men. She could feel the tension in Dende’s frame and wondered if it would be best for him to leave. She could see that he was trying to be brave in the face of a man who must have occupied some of his worst nightmares and she applauded him for his courage, yet there was really no need for Dende to put himself through such unpleasantness. In fact, judging by the looks on all the other nameks’ faces, Dende was likely only making things much worse for himself.

.

.

“Are you getting tired?” Radditz asked, poking Puar roughly in the back. It was harder than he’d meant to, as usual, but it did have the useful side effect of keying the saiyan in to the state of his mate’s transformation. His jabbing digit had actually distorted Puar’s shape beyond the usual way; the cat’s normally firm back had given way too easily, like poking a pillow. “You’re all spongy and pale.”

“I’m okay,” Puar insisted, even though he was plainly not. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thanks to a combo of one amorous partner and excitement over their imminent docking with Harbour Colony, and he had been holding his secondary form for quite some time at that point. It was beginning to wear him down.

“Transform,” Radditz offered, “I’ll carry your stuff and you can ride around on my shoulder.” He patted said bodypart invitingly, like someone trying to entice a reluctant cat into his lap.

“I...” Puar shook his head and Radditz grunted in irritation. He really didn’t understand the other man’s reluctance to wear his original form in public. “Isn’t it awkward for you?”

“What, to carry you around on my shoulder? Feh,” Radditz snorted, “don’t be dumb.” He cocked his head to the side and looked down at Puar, and even though he was only trying to be helpful, he got the feeling that maybe he’d done something wrong. He was missing something for sure, if the squint-eyed look Puar was giving him was any indication.

“I mean,” the shapeshifter hissed, “it’s it awkward for you to be with me...when I’m like that.”

“This again?” Radditz asked incredulously, “You’re impossible! What do I care what any of these people think?” He grabbed Puar by the wrist and dragged him in behind a market stall where they were relatively hidden from the crowd. “Cat shape. Right now.”

“Radditz,”

“Now.” The big saiyan leaned down, baring his fangs and narrowing his eyes. It was a mean tactic, but it tended to help him get his way, when Puar was reminded of his relative size and strength. Hissing back and hackles raised, Puar nevertheless obeyed and perched on Radditz’s shoulder once his discarded clothes had been gathered up and put into the shopping bags with the day’s purchases. “See?” Radditz asked, all smiles since he’d gotten what he wanted, “Isn’t that better?” He reached up with one hand, intending to rub Puar’s furry little head, and instead got bitten for his troubles.

It was just as well that their day was already ruined, for just as Radditz was preparing to cuss out his little cat mate, their communicators went off and Bulma’s voice came through, ordering everyone back to the ship.

.

.

Piccolo missed the sun. Harbour Colony’s artificial one was bright and warm, and much nicer than the harsh, phosphorescent lights that served on Red Station, but there was still something missing. Earth’s sun had not been unique, of course, but there was something about the real energy and heat of an honest-to-goodness ball of burning gas that set one’s soul at peace. Perhaps it was because the birthplace of Kami and Piccolo Daimyo had been blessed with three of them, perhaps it was just that he’d spent his entire life so far living in the wilderness, but real sunlight was something he missed dearly. Idly, he wondered if the other nameks felt that way too and if so, he could kind of see why they hadn’t come out of the ship today. As nice as the approximation was, the longing it engendered in him for real sunlight would probably be worse, in the long run, than if he’d just stayed away.

Bulma’s communiqué had come through easily ten minutes ago but he was reluctant to go back to the ship. He’d found a peaceful spot in a man made park in which to meditate and was not really ready to go back to the dank hull of Red Station, so crammed with tension and noise. For the second time in as many minutes, he understood the gathered nameks and why they seemed so constantly miserable. Well, not all of them, he amended. There was that kid, and a handful of others who seemed to enjoy the mixed company of Red’s crew. Still though, if it weren’t for the side of him that was Kami, Piccolo thought he might have stolen a small ship and blasted out of that place a long time ago to set up his own little corner of terror in the universe.

Heaving in one last deep, deep breath, Piccolo uncrossed his legs and stood up, startling some nearby picknickers who hadn’t seen him move even an inch in the past few hours. He looked longingly at the fake sun and shook his head to clear it of wishful thoughts. Soon they’d be on Tarble’s planet, wherever that was, and he’d once again feel the sun on his skin, the crunch of dirt beneath his boots...or so he hoped. For the love of all that was good in the universe, if Tarble’s home turned out to be an ice planet, Vegeta was going to get a good punch in the face.

.

.

“What do you want?” Nappa asked, arms crossed and feet planted shoulder width apart in his typical stone wall fashion. A few feet to the left and back, Vegeta leaned against the wall in a deceptively casual pose. It was a classic tactic of his, to act like he was just too damn important to bother speaking, and one that worked well on those uninitiated in saiyan power dynamics. Orly was shaking in his boots, but beside him Zarbon remained calm. They’d moved out of the cordoned off chamber and into the training facility at large, a move that suggested Vegeta felt no threat from him. The woman and the child sat quietly on a bench off to the side and if Vegeta valued her even a fraction of what she claimed he did, there would be no violence. The interrogation was all for show.

“I want to join you.” It was Zarbon who answered, boldly, and both saiyans snorted. Beside him, Orly looked wounded, though the only person to notice was Bulma.

“Hear that, V’geta? Prissypants here wants to join us.” Nappa threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, but Zarbon did not rise to the bait.

“Cut the crap, will you?” Zarbon drawled, “And tell me what you want to know. I presume that by this point you’ve looked into every file there is on me and on Orly; you know we want Frieza dead as much as you do.”

“How do we know it’s not a trick?” Nappa asked, just as Radditz walked in. His eyes widened as he saw what was going on, but remained silent as he executed a quick salute to Vegeta and took his place beside the prince. A tiny blue mammal hopped from his shoulder and scampered through the air toward Bulma and Dende, and Zarbon was once again struck by the strange dichotomy of this place, this crew. The saiyans had long been considered some of Frieza’s most dangerous, vicious warriors and yet here they were, peaceably sharing quarters with women, children, and cute little animals.

“A pretty elaborate trick,” Zarbon shrugged, “and one in which I’ve suffered more than any sane man would volunteer for.”

“You’ve been Frieza’s right hand man for a long time,” Radditz put in, stepping forward while Vegeta remained as silent as ever, “I think maybe you’ve done worse for him in your time.” His voice was smooth yet gritty, implying something that made the audience on the bench squirm. Again, Bulma wondered if she should make Dende leave. Violence was one thing, but whatever unseemly things Radditz was hinting at was far beyond appropriate for the tender namekian child.

“Dende,” she ventured, but he shook his head, having already discerned her intent.

“I’m staying,” he insisted, and from Bulma’s shoulder, Puar shivered and ducked a little closer into the crook of her neck. 

“Why didn’t I stay upstairs?” he asked, “Why didn’t Radditz tell me to? I should have known this would be serious when I saw Seventeen and Eighteen on guard duty.”

Whatever it was that Radditz meant, it certainly had struck a chord. Zarbon had gone very pale and still, except for two patches of vivid colour on his cheeks, and even Orly, who up to that point had been cowering behind him, moved away. “It’s not a trick,” Zarbon ground out, fighting the urge to lash out as his guts writhed and his belly boiled. He was saved from further interrogation by the entry of several more people. “What is this, a fucking zoo? Everyone come to gawk?” he hissed, as Gohan formally saluted and took his place with the other saiyans. Two other men, one namek and one vaguely saiyan-looking, walked in behind him but did not salute or take up a formal stance. They stood instead by the far wall while a doe-eyed, black haired woman hung nervously about in the doorway.

Zarbon shook his head, trying to clear it and wondering why he wasn’t more prepared for this. “Look, Vegeta,” he said, pinning the prince with his gaze, trying to suppress his irritation as Vegeta looked impassively back. “You and I, we wasted so much time at each other’s throats. Each trying to out do the other and for what? For Frieza? We can work _together_ , you and I!”

“What makes you think,” Vegeta said quietly, stepping forward, “that I need your help?” He moved slowly, purposefully, the tip of his tail flicking the air behind his calves, and he reminded Bulma of a big, predatory cat; a mountain lion stalking its prey. “And furthermore, that I might want it? Frieza’s death is _mine_ ,” he said, and his words were so low, almost sensual, that Bulma felt a trill of excitement run up her spine. “I will not share that victory with anyone.”

“I don’t want your glory!” Zarbon’s voice cracked, and from the corner of her eye, Bulma watched Chichi’s silhouette disappear from the door as she fled the uncomfortable scene. “I just want him dead! I want him torn limb from limb, and I don’t care who does it!” There was a moment of heavy silence in the wake of his confession, and Zarbon stood panting, trying to hold himself together as he waited for Vegeta’s answer.

“I have a question.” Dende had slid off the bench, and crept up beside Gohan. He looked nervously up at Vegeta, as though asking permission, and the saiyan prince simply raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Dende assumed this meant it was okay, and he turned toward Zarbon, his shoulders back and head held high. His fingers knotted together in front of his belly, however, betraying his nervousness. “Why did you do it?”

“Save you, you mean?” Zarbon’s voice was shaky and tired after his outburst, and up close Dende could see sweat beading on his skin. His eyes were glazed with moisture, though not quite to the point of tears. “It was simple. I did not want to kill you.”

“And yet you killed others. Most of our compound was slaughtered. Why me? Why did you choose me to live?” Dende was shaking with emotion and those who could read ki could feel they boy’s skyrocketing from its usual meagre levels. Dende was no fighter, but in his current state he’d probably have been able to give Tien or Krillin a decent workout.

“I would have left the others alive if I could have, but doing so would have put me at risk.”

“That is not an answer to my question.”

“I don’t know!” Zarbon cried out, frustration eating at his core. Everything was all wrong, flushing further down the tubes with each passing second. His only desire, the only thing keeping him from slitting his own throat, was the burning need to help usher Frieza to his grave, and even that was slipping through his fingers. Dende was plainly unsatisfied with the answer, but to Zarbon’s surprise, Vegeta was.

“Fine, you’ll stay.” He turned his gaze to Orly, “And what about you? Your power level is pathetic, I can tell right now, so don’t even bother pretending you’ll be useful in a fight.”

“Just like that?” Dende spluttered, and Vegeta ignored him. He turned to Bulma, who shrugged, torn between supporting these two males who were so important to her. Vegeta was being entirely too glib about the whole thing; she was sure that his easy acceptance was just a front for something else. She peeked over at Zarbon, who stood and simply blinked in obvious surprise. He wasn’t catching on, but he seemed smart, if a little unstable, and Bulma thought with time he might come to see what she did: Vegeta had meant to accept him into their crew from the beginning.

“I will allow you to live because of what you have done for the cause,” Vegeta was circling now, like a shark, “but you will never speak of this. And,” he added as an afterthought, “you’re going to stop with that _praise be_ bullshit. Do we have a deal?”

“Y...yeah.”

“Good. Now get out of here,” he snapped. “You’re wasting my time.” He turned to Bulma and she froze like a rabbit, cornered by a fox. “Did you get the parts?”

“Sort of,” she answered, a little bewildered by the quick change of pace. “They need some alterations.”

“Good. Get to work.” He turned away, ignoring her narrowed eyes and suddenly stiff spine.

“Oh of course,” she stood up, sarcasm dripping from every word as she sketched an elaborate bow, “your highness. I am at your beck and call.” She straightened up and caught Zarbon watching her. “What are you looking at, Greenie?” she snapped, then turned to Dende. “No offense. To you either, Piccolo,” she added, feeling silly and wishing she’d never said it in the first place. “Augh, whatever. I’ve got some work to do, apparently.” She turned and flounced out of the room with her nose in the air and Dende and Puar scuttling behind her.

Zarbon was watching the saiyans this time, and he could have sworn he saw Vegeta crack the barest hint of a smile.

.

.

Mrs. Briefs, Tien thought, had the most varied taste of any woman he had ever met. It wasn’t as though he was an expert or anything, his experience with women being fairly limited, but he figured anyone would be completely flabbergasted to watch the petite blonde sniff over diamonds and jewels one moment, while the next digging in the dirt for the perfect bedding plants.

“I am looking for something tomato-esque,” she was telling the merchant at the little plant stall, who of course had no clue what a tomato might be. All morning, in between educating Tien about gem qualities and how hard it was to find something resembling vanilla out in space, she’d been telling him all about her garden back home, and how she planned to create one on Red Station. Dr. Briefs, she assured him, had already rigged up a lighting system in Bulma’s old lab space, and with a few parts that Bulma was to pick up today she’d have a fancy schmancy watering system that she did not understand but was thrilled about.

Tien shifted the mixed tray of floral and green plants in his arms, trying at the same time to ease the handles of the shopping bags that were beginning to cut into his skin. Bulma’s mother was a marathon shopper, an absolute pro, and he was really just the muscle along for the ride. Watching her shrewdly sort through the offering of fruit and vegetable plants, varieties which she had naturally never seen before in her life, he wondered how he’d ever thought her to be a ditz. She breezed through the displays, quickly spotting bugs and signs of disease that Tien would have assumed to be normal features of the alien plants.

Finally settling on something with vibrant green leaves and long, plum coloured fruits, Mrs. Briefs paid the vendor and flounced along to the next stall, where she and a six-eyed, orange-fanged bear had a surprisingly in-depth conversation about manure. Tien stood by, paying attention only insofar as to be warned if it looked like he might be soon required to _carry_ some of this miracle fertilizer, and allowed his mind to wander.

Harbour Colony was a relatively peaceful place, but he still felt a little antsy, a little on edge. Bulma and the others had paid for him properly from the slaver camp where they’d found him, he wasn’t a known fugitive from the law so theoretically there was no danger posed by walking freely about, outside the safe confines of the ship. In fact, it was probably actually a hell of a lot safer for him to be out and about, rather than in clustered up in Red Station with several of the universe’s most wanted criminals.

Earlier in the day, he’d entertained the notion of simply remaining on Harbour Colony, of finding a job and a place to live out his remaining days in peace. He figured that the others probably wouldn’t miss him too much – he wasn’t very social and they didn’t trust him with much of anything important in terms of their rebel activities anyway – but the thought of remaining here alone was actually a little bit terrifying. There was safety in numbers, and security in being cocooned away in Red Station, isolated from the depravities of the universe. Out in civilization, there was no telling who was friend and who was enemy until it was potentially too late.

Tien had seen the rough sides of this universe, and he had no desire to do so again. He wanted to live in a place where he could sleep peacefully at night, knowing for sure that the reality of the next morning would be better than whatever nightmares he might have. So far, sticking with Bulma and her saiyans seemed the best option.

“Tien, honey, your thingy is going off,” Mrs. Briefs was poking him in the arm, and he was startled back into the real world with a gasp. As he checked his communications unit, he wondered just how long he’d been standing there, staring off into space while horror visions danced before his eyes.

“It’s Bulma,” he told his flighty companion, “we have to go back to the ship.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she pouted, but didn’t make a fuss as she finished another transaction, thankfully just a few packets of seeds and not a wheelbarrow full of excrement.

“Wait a minute, why didn’t you get that message?” Tien asked, belatedly realizing that Bulma’s mother should have gotten the same call. “Where’s your comm unit?”

“Oh, that thing?” Mrs. Briefs waved her hand breezily through the air in a dismissive motion. “It wouldn’t stop beeping at me, so I turned it off,” she shrugged and picked up her latest purchase, turning to smile sweetly at the exasperated warrior. He was once again amending his opinion of her, and it was not a change for the better. “Now which way is home?”

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.

“Oh my, who on Earth is this handsome devil?” Mrs. Briefs dropped the one bag she carried, right in Tien’s way, and tottered into the kitchen on her heels, nearly falling into Orly’s lap she came so close. “And your friend,” she pinched Zarbon’s cheek, “such a nice surprise! Shall I make you boys a snack?”

“You can make me a snack, Mrs. B!” Radditz wrapped an arm around her slim little waist and planted a kiss on her cheek. “These two just ate.”

“Oh, Radditz stop it!” Mrs. Briefs giggled like a woman half her age and slapped his arm away. “I am a married woman, and you a blushing bride yourself!”

“Bride?” Radditz sputtered.

“Well Puar can’t be,” Mrs. Briefs danced neatly away toward the fridge and patted a stranger on the head; a blue haired, blue tailed man whom Zarbon hadn’t been introduced to. “He hasn’t got enough hair for an updo!”

“Not like you,” the stranger grinned and shook his head and Zarbon guessed, correctly, that this must be Puar.

“That can change,” Radditz’s tail was whipping back and forth, dangerously close to slicing right through the butter dish.

“Ohhh, it can, but not without taking mass from... _other_ things.”

“Oh, shame on me!” Mrs. Briefs gasped, halfway through cracking an enormous pile of equally enormous eggs into a bowl. She spun around and stuck out one well manicured hand to each of the new comers. “Mrs. Briefs,” she introduced herself and waited with expectant, unblinking eyes for the boys to respond in kind.

“Um...Orly. I’m not staying,” the blonde offered, awkwardly. He was actually sort of itching to get back to the base but no one was letting him leave until it was dark out, lest he be seen. In the absence of this “Sixteen” person that people kept mentioning, the blue-haired Bulma had put him in the regeneration tank for a few hours to take the edge of the worst wounds, so he was not in danger of dying any time soon. She’d bandaged the rest and done a not-half-bad job of it. It still hurt like hell, but it would do for a while.

“Oh, that’s a shame pumpkin!” Mrs. Briefs made a moue of distaste and batted her eyelashes at Orly. “And you dear?”

“Zarbon.”

“Oh, what a lovely name!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Briefs,” Zarbon said smoothly, pasting a winning smile on his face and charming her utterly. “That’s so terribly formal though. May I call you by your first name, perhaps?”

“My first name?” she smiled, blinking, and cocked her head to the side, looking for all the world as though she had no idea what he was asking.

“Er...yes.”

“Oh Zarbon, sweetie! You can just call me Mom!” She squealed and clapped her hands, clasping them together as she looked around the room, eyes shining. “You can ALL call me Mom!”

.

.

Sixteen hunched a little deeper into his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible, which considering his general build, was still not very small at all. Unfortunately for him, Sabriya thought his coy demeanour was cute and charming, and his polite speech was oh so different from the clientele that usually came wandering through her place of business. She plucked a small, sweet, grapelike fruit from the bowl on the table and held it up to his lips. Because he did not want to be rude, Sixteen accepted this behaviour and ate the proffered treat, even though he found it very strange and unnecessary. He at least had an idea of why she was sitting on his lap and, recalling the awkwardness with Chichi, wondered if he should inform her that he would regrettably not be able to perform sex acts with her.

From across the smoky bar, Sixteen watched Oolong weave his way back from the washroom, his muscular body twitching and rippling with what appeared to be strength, but was actually extreme fatigue. They’d been in this particular establishment for about half of the day now, and Oolong, who was sadly out of practice in terms of shapeshifting, had just made his third trip to the bathroom in the past hour. He claimed, to the gracious ladies that shared their table, that he’d merely broken the seal, but Sixteen knew that Oolong was sneaking into the stalls so that he could snatch a moment’s rest from keeping up his transformation. Sixteen wondered if the constant flipping back and forth might have been more tiring than just trying to hold on for longer. He’d earlier suggested that they simply leave the bar altogether so that Oolong could transform back to his normal self, but the pig had become absolutely enchanted by a six-breasted dancer named Yul, who thought he was a rich tycoon and world-class martial artist. He’d really laid it on thick.

On stage, Roshi’s old bones got the work out of a lifetime, as he struggled to keep up with Yul and Sabriya’s good friend and coworker Mink, a woman of Amazonian proportions whose breasts were average in number but far from it in size. Sixteen winced as he watched the old man’s vulgar moves around the pole, fearful of a sudden hernia or slipped disk due to excessive enthusiasm. He did not want to have to explain this to the rest of the crew.

“Shall I get you another Alkabrew?” Sabriya’s purring voice distracted him from Roshi’s jerky gyrations, and for that he was actually a little grateful. He nodded and she slipped off his lap, making sure to grind her nicely rounded bottom into him as she did so, and sauntered off toward the bartender. Sixteen heaved a heavy sigh, wishing for the millionth time that the other two had taken his pleas to leave seriously. Sabriya seemed like a kind woman, but he did not want to be there, in that bar, with Roshi and Oolong. He’d really wanted to go with Bulma and the twins but these two troublemakers had guilted him into coming with them, claiming that they would have no fun if forced to tag along with the others. Everyone had agreed that every group needed at least one high level fighter and despite his history, nobody considered Roshi among that category. Either that, or they just thought he’d still make too much trouble without a chaperone to reign him in.

In a stroke of timing quite possibly fit for miracle status, all three of their communicators went off at once. Roshi nearly fell of the stage in his moment of surprise, but Mink was strong and quick, so she caught and hauled him back up to the stage with ease. “Trying to get away from me, old man?” she laughed, bending down to straighten his rumpled shirt. In her heels, she was a full three feet taller than he was and when he looked up, all he could see was the glory of underboob. He was in heaven.

“We have to go,” Sixteen was suddenly beside him, heads level even though the android was still standing on the floor and Roshi on the stage.

“You shouldn’t joke with an old man,” Roshi waved the big android aside and cha-cha-cha’d his way back to Mink. He pointedly plucked his own still-beeping comm-unit from his pocket and lobbed it underhand toward Sixteen. “You deal with that,” he said, reaching out with knobby fingers for Mink’s swaying hips. Oolong too, had ignored the communiqué in favour of slamming back another shot with Yul, and Sabriya was nearly back at the table, a tall, frosty alkabrew in each hand. Sixteen wasn’t sure that he had ever actually told a lie before, but then again, he’d also never experienced this kind of desperation before either.

“Ladies,” he said, and his deep voice commanded all of their attention, “do you know where there is even more...um...booze and uh, music?” He paused, trying to think of everything these women had so far seemed to enjoy. “And money. We have lots of money. At our ship.” He was lucky that his voice was so wooden in the first place, because the ladies couldn’t tell how especially, unusually awkward and stilted he was acting.

“Back to your ship?” Sabriya handed him his glass and clung to his arm, looking up hopefully at him. She’d never in her life met such a nice man and her head was suddenly filled with visions of flying away with him.

“Money?” said Mink, at the same time as Yul said “Booze?” and none of Oolong or Roshi’s protestations could stop them; they were on their way.

“This is never going to work!” Oolong hissed at Roshi, squeaking a little in alarm as a ripple ran through his form. He was sweating hard, trying to hold himself together and if he didn’t get a chance to rest soon, his whole illusion was going to fall apart. “Bulma and Chichi are gonna kibosh this thing so fast!”

“No no no no, it’ll be fine!” Roshi hissed back, pausing to flash Mink a huge smile. “We just need a plan, a story!”

“Okay, okay...story.” Oolong nodded, warming to the idea. “So maybe we should try and stall a bit while we think of one.”

“Ladies!” Roshi pasted on a big grin, and Sixteen felt his stomach drop, “before we get back to the ship, how about a little shopping?”

.

“...So you see, these three ladies are intergalactic freedom fighters too!” Roshi exhaled and waited, expectantly, while Bulma and Chichi stood side by side, and impenetrable wall of crossed arms and tapping feet. Eighteen stood beside Bulma, going through the motions even though she wasn’t one hundred percent sure why. Seventeen stood a few feet back beside Krillin, whose jaw had pretty much dropped to the floor.

“Chichi,” Bulma said loudly, “do you sense any power level from these ladies?”

“Why no, Bulma, I don’t.” Chichi squinted at the gathered group and even her sympathy for poor Sixteen was not enough to cool her irritation with Roshi and Oolong. It was past dark already, and the call to return to the ship had gone out several hours before. Their stalling tactics had been effective, though expensive, but their storytelling still needed work.

“I do,” Nappa insisted, earning a glare from the ladies of Red Station. “What?” he asked, not fooling anyone with his false innocence. Radditz elbowed him in the gut, even though he’d probably have been staring just as hard if Puar hadn’t been there.

“Well who’s that?” Oolong demanded, grunting in surprise as a ripple of unsteady matter ran through his body. He was pointing at Zarbon and Orly, who had just been about to leave when the stragglers had shown up. “How come you guys get to keep strays, huh? We don’t need any more meat on this boat!”

“We only have one stray,” Bulma pointed out, and Zarbon wasn’t sure if he should be offended, “and he’s not a hooker!” She turned around, and he was struck by the absolute absurdity of what she said next. “Are you?”

“Most assuredly not.” Zarbon said.

“Okay, you’re so pretty I thought I’d make sure,” Bulma blew him a kiss and winked, leaving Zarbon to wonder again just what her relationship with Vegeta was. The saiyan in question was not there to provide clues; he’d washed his hands of the issue, leaving Nappa and Radditz to oversee Orly’s departure, and had gone back to training himself.

“These are not hookers,” Roshi said, and he wasn’t completely lying because though they might have engaged in the occasional romp for money, it wasn’t technically in their job description, “these ladies are _dancers_.”

“Look,” Chichi cut in, having had enough of the idiocy, “I’m sure you three are lovely ladies, but I’m afraid you’ve probably been deceived. This is not some kind of party boat, and these bums have no money. This one,” she stomped forward and jabbed Oolong in his falsely muscled chest, “doesn’t even look like this? Do you?” she smiled and poked him again, hard, with her pointer finger. Oolong let out a gasp and his whole body shivered like jello on a dryer before he shifted back to his original form with a violent pop that caused Yul and Mink to shriek out loud and jump backwards.

“Oolong?” Yul cried, pointing in horror at the sweaty, panting pig that sat where her musclebound hog had been only a few moments before. “You cad!”

“And what are you?” Mink poked Roshi, cautiously. “Even older? Because I’m telling you, money can only account for so many missing teeth! Sabriya, come on! We’re out of here!”

“But...” the pretty little brunette clutched at Sixteen’s arm and he stood there, obviously uncomfortable and with no idea what to do. “I want to go with Sixteen.”

“Oh, for the love of...” Chichi rolled her eyes and tromped over to the strange woman, leaned over, and whispered something in her ear.

“It...it doesn’t matter!” Sabriya clutched Sixteen tighter. “I’m coming with you!”

“Um, perhaps I could help here,” Orly swallowed and walked down the ramp out of the docking bay. He was leaving anyway, and Sabriya was the only one of the three who did not terrify him on some base level. “Let me take you home, madam,” he smiled openly at her and she turned, tentatively allowing herself to be handed over. He really should have been heading straight back to the resistance base to get patched up properly, but if he was losing Zarbon, he thought this pretty lady might make a nice consolation prize. Besides that, the painkillers that Bulma had given him were doing their job quite well; he was feeling lighter than air.

“Oh my, you have a very nice voice.” She sniffled, slowly disentangling herself from Sixteen. She looked at Chichi with one raised brow and asked, quietly, “Does he have the equipment for the job?”

“No idea,” Chichi snatched Sixteen’s arm and dragged him quickly away, before the scantily clad _lady_ could get her claws in again. “Do I want to know?” she demanded, and Sixteen sighed sadly.

“Probably not.” He hesitated then, and wondered whether or not he should actually say what was on his mind. “Please do not leave me alone, off ship, with them again.”

“They’ll be lucky if they’re ever allowed off of Red again.” She rolled her eyes and locked her arm in his, and together they strolled up the ramp past the others, including Goku, who tried not to growl as they went by, and only failed a little bit.

“So I’ll be seeing you, I guess,” Orly called back to Zarbon, who was watching Bulma drag the last two members of her crew in by the ears, and seriously second guessing his decision to remain on Red Station. All the women who lived here were scary, and it looked like the only two gay boys were taken by each other.

“Yeah, take care of yourself,” Zarbon smiled a little, unable to part with anything but good feelings, despite the mess they shared between them. He wasn’t sure that he even particularly liked Orly, or that Orly even really liked him, but they’d made a difference in each other’s lives, he thought, and that was something unusual for him.

“This is Zarbon, say hello,” Bulma ground out as she dragged the old man and the pig past, and they both grumbled a greeting. “Roshi,” she tugged the old man’s ear and he yelped, “and Oolong.”

“Nice to, ah, meet you.” The pig grunted, then a string of curses as Bulma yanked him along. Zarbon stared, so absorbed in the spectacle that he didn’t notice Radditz come up behind him.

“Wacky, huh?” Radditz clapped a big hand on Zarbon’s shoulder, startling him. “I don’t know how it happened either, but one minute your life is normal, and the next you’re here, with all that.” He gestured to Bulma, who was trying to fit Oolong and Roshi through the door at the same time, and not doing well. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

 

 

 


	43. Chapter 43

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  I have written and re-written certain parts of this chapter several times, and to my ultimate frustration they’re still not really how I want them, but it’s been a month and I don’t think my staring at them for another few weeks is going to improve anything. I hit a point in my planning where what I’d planned just really didn’t work all that well.

                On a more pleasant note, FFN has surpassed 500 reviews (Wowza!) and MMO is getting close to 300! At the time I’m writing this note, the reviews on both sites total 818, which is just plain insanity. Thank you so, so, so much to all of you.

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PRESENT DAY

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                If Orly had been only slightly less aware of his good looks, he might have thought something was up when all three women began fawning over him. It wasn’t a case of stupidity, but of inexperience and arrogance. It was simple; Orly was used to having female attention. He was not, however, accustomed to being drugged, tied up, and slapped around by his various playmates. At least, not without his prior consent.

                For their part, Mink, Sabriya and Yul were old hands at ropes and pain, but usually in a different context – one where the client wasn’t hissing and spitting curses at them during the process. One where if he was, he was paying handsomely to do so.

                “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sabriya said for the fifth time in as many minutes. She’d been against the kidnapping from the start and now that Mink and Yul were talking torture, she really wanted nothing to do with it. Aside from her own personal inclinations, the man they’d abducted was proving to be a bit more rowdy than they’d thought he would, judging from his polite demeanour and charming personality. Between them the three women had serviced enough of Frieza’s personnel to know that this blonde boy was no warrior, but he was feisty when panicked, and smart enough. He’d already bitten Yul’s hand when she made the mistake of getting too close to his face, and he’d done so hard enough to draw blood, a smear of which was still on his chin.

                “Sab, will you just shut up?” Yul hissed, turning to glare at her friend while Mink paced back and forth before Orly’s trussed up form. In her left hand she held a lit cigar, of which she had only taken a few puffs, and in her right she twirled a leather whip by the handle. It was meant for play but all three women were well aware that the difference between pleasure and pain was only a matter of how hard you hit.

                “How stupid do you have to be,” Mink mused, trailing the whip across Orly’s bared shoulders, “to think we wouldn’t figure out who you were? A fake name? Hah!” she laughed, “It only works if you put in a little effort. Everyone in the universe knows that voice, Orly.” He flinched when she said his name, well aware of his mistake. If Bulma had figured it out after conversing with him for even a few moments, of course anyone could after having spent an evening with him. Zarbon had told him, time and time again, that failure to disguise his voice was what had gotten him found out by Frieza, too. “Even a child could have recognized you.”

                “So what?” he tried to stay calm, knowing that if he pissed them off, he’d only end up even more hurt. “What are you going to do now?”

                “Oh, that all depends on if you cooperate,” Yul said darkly, cradling her bandaged hand. “That big, bald one back there, that was a saiyan.”

                “Nappa,” Mink smiled, and in other circumstances her demeanour could have been called sultry, enticing.

                “And you, me, and everyone in the galaxy...well, we all know how much Frieza wants those saiyans. And I’m guessing, since that long haired one beside him was also a saiyan, that the high and mighty prince himself was kickin’ around somewhere in there.” Yul bared her teeth and her narrow eyes turned to slits, making her look like a vicious predator.

                “Now don’t get us wrong,” Mink picked up when Orly simply glared, “it’s not like we’re pro-Frieza or anything. Seems a shame to maybe turn in Vengeance when he might be the only thing in the universe that can kill the icejin bastard. But see here, baby sweets, what we three _are_ is pro-money. And this here is a good opportunity. Especially considering the treat we haven’t even touched on! Because, and correct me if I’m wrong doll, but that blue-haired ballbuster _did_ call your boyfriend over there Zarbon. And we have it on good authority that Frieza would really like him back, too.”

                “So what we’re going to do is turn you in, instead,” Yul smiled sweetly and Orly yelped in pain as Mink leaned forward and crushed the tip of her cigar to his knee, quickly scorching through the fabric of his pants to sear his skin. “And we’re going to collect a bit of a reward, and maybe, just maybe, we let Frieza’s people know that you know where his little lost pets can be found.”

                “And then it’s off our shoulders. No guilt and we live like queens on the reward money.” Mink grinned as she leaned in to examine the damage she had done.

                “Why are you telling me this?” Orly finally spoke. “Why haven’t you just done it already?”

                “Two-fold,” Mink shrugged and looked away. “You can thank Sabriya over there for convincing us that we should wait a bit, give those guys a chance to get away from here.”

                “And as for telling you about it,” Yul was not so abashed, “fair warning. You were pretty decent to us, even if you did nearly rip my thumb off. Been treated worse by men who shoulda been nicer, but business is business and fuck, this hurts like a bitch, man.” She waved her hand at him. “So this way you know what’s coming. Figured you might wanna off yourself after we hand you over. Might be for the best,” she finished, matter-of-factly.

                “Yeah, we’re not total monsters,” Mink added, still not looking at him, “I’d even offer to give you a knife or something, if I thought for even a second you’d manage to smuggle it past the security check. But as far as that goes, you’ll have to figure it out yourself, I’m afraid.”

                “Now,” Yul sat down across from him and crossed one leg over the other, leaning back into the chair so that her six breasts jutted proudly forward, “let’s talk details. We want to know what you know, baby face.”

.

                Orly woke with a start as a sharp tug on the rope binding his wrists sent pain lancing through his arm and across his shoulder. “Shhh!” a hiss admonished him, and he only then realized that he’d cried out in pain. “Be quiet.”

                The artificial atmosphere was full dark, past midnight, and the only light in the room came from the garishly flashing neon signs outside the window. The other women had long since gone to bed, leaving him to doze fitfully in the stiff-backed chair they’d tied him to, sitting in the middle of their living room, for he’d realized shortly after the whips and ropes started appearing that for abductors who’d not planned this, they were remarkably well equipped. It did not take a genius to realize that they’d brought him to their own apartment.

                “Sabriya?” he hissed, and she patted his arm twice in affirmation before returning to her work on the knots at his back. She cursed softly, disappeared for a moment, and returned with a wickedly sharp looking knife. Orly found himself sweating, counting the seconds as she sawed diligently through the thick ropes. She led him quickly outside and handed him the knife.

                “Go,” she insisted, making shooing motions at him with her hands, and he took a few steps, before stopping dead in his tracks. He turned, and she was still there, watching him. She shivered, even though the artificial weather modulators of the space station meant the nights were warm, and Orly thought at that moment that he had never seen another creature look so fragile.

                “What will they do to you when they see the ropes have been cut?” Orly asked, and she swallowed thickly but did not answer. Briefly, he wondered if this was a trap of some kind. If so, she was a damn good actress. “Come with me,” he said recklessly, reaching his hand out to her.

                “I have to go back inside,” she was shaking her head slowly, “and... You are so kind. So, so kind.” Her shoulders shook a little as she spoke, but she composed herself, pushed a hank of hair behind her ear and looked him in the eye. “I’m going to go and kill them now, so they don’t tell.” Her voice was soft and chills ran up and down his spine, looking into her wide, vacant eyes. It was as though someone else had taken over. He wondered if he should just turn and run, let her do whatever nasty deeds she felt she needed to. If he left now, he’d most likely never see her again and the thought sat embarrassingly well with him.

                “Not on your life, bitch!” snarled a voice from the doorway and both of them turned, shocked to see Yul standing there, with Mink close behind.

                “What the fuck, Sab?” Mink closed the gap in two enormous strides, shoving Sabriya hard with both hands onto the ground. The smaller woman blinked and scuttled backward, eyes wide and afraid; whatever calm had possessed her, it was now gone.

                “Kill the bitch! Kill them both!” Yul shrieked, running briefly inside in search of weapons.

                “No need for violence,” Orly edged forward, trying to give Sabriya some cover in case Mink should lunge. “We’ll just be going,” he insisted, then howled as a kitchen knife thunked into his right arm, courtesy of a cackling Yul, who’d returned with a handful. Thank goodness he was left handed, or he might have been in trouble. Still though, being stabbed was no picnic and for about the millionth time since he’d woken up trussed to that damn chair, he wished that he’d begged Vegeta to let him stay aboard Red, or at least that he’d never gotten involved with this trio of insane women in the first place. Another knife came whizzing at him through the air and he dodged, rolling to the side while he yanked out the one that had already hit.

                “We were nice to you!” Yul shrieked from the doorway, “And this is how you repay us?”

                “You were going to hand me over to Frieza!” Orly shouted back, cursing as he saw Mink and Sabriya grappling on the ground. Everything in him screamed at him to just run away and leave the women to their battle, but slightly off-kilter or not, Sabriya had saved his life. He couldn’t just leave her to die, smothered to death by Mink’s enormous breasts.

                “Fuck,” Yul hurled a fork this time and Orly wondered if she’d grabbed it by mistake or if she’d legitimately thought she might do some damage with it, “it was just business!”

                “Well so’s this!” Orly dashed forward, clutching the knife that he’d pulled out of his own arm in his left hand. He skidded to a stop in front of the thrashing girls and plunged the blade down and through Mink’s back, a shock travelling up and reverberating painfully through his arm as it glanced off one of her ribs. She howled in pain and threw herself off of Sabriya, rolling to the side as Yul finally left the shelter of the doorway to run to her aid. There was a sickening snap as Mink shoved away, hard, and Orly had only to look at the angle of Sabriya’s neck to know that she was dead. He did not wait around to see if Mink’s wound was fatal, but rather turned and bolted as quickly as he could, staggering heedlessly through the streets in his effort to get away from the grisly scene he’d left behind. He stopped to vomit twice along the way, each time looking with paranoid caution behind him.

 If he was smart, he knew, he would have stuck around and done them both in, but Orly had never had a taste for death. As much as he boasted and encouraged the rebel factions of the universe, Zarbon had been right about him. He was okay in a brawl but the killing instinct was not there; before tonight he’d never actually seen anyone murdered, up close and personal. He’d been near dead bodies, he’d seen videos of people being killed from afar, and he’d been around for a handful of peaceful passings. But the sight and sound of violent death, the smell of it as it happened, these were things that he had never before experienced in the immediate.

                They were not things that he particularly wanted to experience again.

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                Zarbon sat awkwardly at the kitchen table while Mrs. Briefs – he couldn’t quite bring himself to call her _Mom_ – prepared a late-night snack. To his left sat Radditz and on his right was the pretty blonde who’d beat the crap out of Orly. Her creepy brother sat on her other side, and a huge motherfucker with a flaming orange Mohawk took up the next seat. Gohan sat next to Radditz and on his other side was the secret full-blooded saiyan father that no-one in Frieza’s camp knew about. The dark-haired human woman, his mother, milled about with Mrs. Briefs and Bulma in the kitchen. Vegeta and Nappa leaned against the wall, ostensibly watching the progression of the food preparations, though in reality each was actually eying up a Briefs woman. The entire crew of Red Station seemed to be there too, all crammed in, except for a few of the nameks. The ones that were there did not seem overly pleased to see him. It was the boy and two adults he did not recognize, plus a third who, while plainly a namekian, seemed to give off vibes of _otherness_ , somehow. If pressed, however, Zarbon would not have been able to say just what was so different, aside from the fact that this last namek did not seem to socialize much with the others.

                A timer pinged and the blonde human bustled over to the oven. With help from the other two human females and the two bald human males, she set the table with a veritable smorgasbord of choices, both hot and cold. Zarbon was shocked at first, and then recalled the fact that he was in the company of five saiyans, and began to wonder if there would be enough to go around.

                Then again, despite their weakness and oddities, this crew seemed to know their own business.

                Takeoff in Red Station had been a surprisingly smooth affair and except for a little bit of rumbling and the bone-deep awareness of outer space that intergalactic travellers so often developed, Zarbon might have been hard-pressed to pinpoint the moment they’d left Harbour Colony. There was no atmosphere to combat with but even so, Zarbon could tell that the ship was well designed and well made. He wondered if the blue haired woman, she of the circuit boards, was responsible. She certainly seemed to be in charge of the ship itself, even if she mostly just went along with what Vegeta wanted. It had been he who’d ordered everyone inside for takeoff, post haste, and Zarbon had not heard a single complaint even though it was obvious that some of the residents of this place had not quite finished their business colony-side.

                As though divining the nature of his thoughts, Vegeta chose that moment to turn his attention to Zarbon. “You look like shit, pretty boy,” the saiyan sneered as Mrs. Briefs passed by him with a heaping plate of steamed vegetables, which she set on the table.

                “Still better than you, monkey face.” Zarbon shot back. Behind him, Mrs. Briefs stopped to rustle his hair and he stiffened, his whole back going straight with the surprise of it.

                “Boys, boys,” she tutted, “you are both very handsome young men.” She pinched Zarbon’s cheek from behind and he froze. No one but Frieza had ever dared touch him so familiarly and with such nonchalance. “But there will be no fighting at the dinner table, dears.” She released her hold and jiggled toward Vegeta, who simply bared his teeth at her in warning. Amazingly, she giggled and patted his arm on her way by, and somehow remained fully intact and unharmed throughout the entire ordeal.

                “See,” Radditz leaned over and whispered in his ear, “bizarre.” Across the room, unnoticed by the burly saiyan, Puar scowled at the pair. “A word to the wise, don’t ever walk in front of her. She’s a groper.”

                “You’re being awfully nice. It’s not like you,” Zarbon said, finding Radditz’s breath on his neck to be a wholly disconcerting experience. He’d noticed the burly saiyan watching him before, of course, in their previous life as Frieza’s underlings. A glance here, there. He’d returned the looks with interest but Radditz had always seemed to tow Vegeta’s party line; they had never shared a pleasant or even civil conversation outside of Frieza’s hearing.

                “Yes, Radditz,” an icy voice said, and both looked up to see that Puar had moved to stand between their chair-backs, a white-knuckled hand gripping each. “What is so different?” When he spoke, Zarbon could swear that his teeth seemed longer and more jagged than they had appeared earlier.

                “Puar!” Radditz said warmly, apparently unaware of the trouble he was in. He reached up and covered Puar’s hand with his own, though the gesture seemed only to cause more irritation.

                “I recall we had a discussion once,” Puar hissed, leaning down and speaking very quietly so that his next words could be heard by Radditz alone, “in which I warned you what I would do, should you ever...stray. Do you remember?” Radditz nodded. “Good. It looked like you could maybe use a reminder.” He cocked an eyebrow and yanked his hand from the saiyan’s grip before storming over to the fridge to help Bulma unload another tray.

                “Oh god, he’s hot when he’s angry,” Radditz’s voice had taken on a rather dreamlike quality and Zarbon shifted, uncomfortable with the sudden sexual energy radiating from the man next to him. Radditz was big, imposing, and as male as they came, with the evidence of that plainly visible if one focused too long on his lap, and Zarbon found himself responding in kind. “I’ve been trying to get him to take it out on me in bed, see? But he’s kind of a prude and oof!” he gasped as Gohan’s elbow drove hard into his side, momentarily knocking the breath from his lungs.

                “Uncle,” the child admonished, sounding very much like his mother, “a gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

                “Who ever said I was a gentleman?” Radditz grinned widely, but halted his embarrassingly detailed confession to the relief of everyone around. Not one person on the ship would have honestly, seriously disapproved of their relationship – even though some of them might have joked to the contrary – but there are just some things you don’t need to know about the people you have to live with.

                As for Zarbon, he took the awkward moment of silence that followed as a chance to look around the surprisingly spacious kitchen. From what he had seen of Red so far, it was much more homey than the average ship; the people that now surrounded him had obviously gone to a lot of effort to create comfort in an otherwise hostile environment. While that in itself was not unusual, the details were different than most. The crew of Red station did not surround themselves with luxury, but with quaint charm, from the framed photographs on the walls to the bright, cheerful paint scheme, and the frilly curtains that framed each window in the residential level. It was glaringly obvious that Red was not simply a mode of transportation, but rather a _home_ to those who lived on it.

                It was that realization, more than anything else that he had encountered that day, that set him on edge. He had no idea how to act in such a setting, so different from his years and years of military experience, the last decade spent at the beck and call of Frieza himself. And now, in the height of his rebellion, to find that Vegeta was not off slaughtering the masses, but instead floating around in this country cottage of a ship, lord and master of an assortment of weaklings...it was too much.

                Zarbon kept expecting someone to say something, to do something, to give some hint that this ship was not at all what it seemed, but as he watched everyone casually loading up plates, milling about and chatting with each other, he knew that it was no act. Nappa, for one, was physically incapable of false pleasantry. He was barely capable of legitimate pleasantry, and there he was, making nice with Mrs. Briefs as she heaped steamed veggies onto his plate. It was then that Bulma but in, planting herself between her mother and the hulking saiyan, grinning a big, fake smile as she ladled several spoonfuls of gravy onto his plate. Mrs. Briefs tottered on to her next victim, and Nappa sneered at Bulma. She gave him a sharp look back, and continued spooning gravy, that smile plastered to her face, until everything on the plate, including the salad, was sopping wet.

                At this, Zarbon found himself smiling, which he hadn’t done in a long time.

                “Word to the wise,” he turned sharply, startled, to find Radditz’s face disconcertingly close to his own, “don’t look too long at that one.”

                “Or what?” Zarbon bristled.

                “Or Vegeta’ll rip your heart out your asshole, pretty boy.”

“Hah,” Zarbon said humourlessly, “there’s the good old saiyan attitude I know and love.”

Radditz snorted to himself, shaking his head slowly as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s not just that,” he said. “She’s weak, yeah, but she ain’t helpless, if you get my drift. These earthlings,” he cast a look at Puar, laughing with Krillin across the room, “they’re resourceful. They find ways.”

.

.

“So,” Bulma said apologetically, “that concludes the tour of Red Station, which brings us to your quarters.” She stopped outside of a door and gestured toward it with both hands like a game show model. Her smile was a little forced.

“You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic,” Zarbon drawled, flashing a flirty smile despite Radditz’s earlier warning. She was an odd woman, yes, but quite charming in her own way and he’d rather enjoyed the tour. Especially the parts where he’d had to follow her up the ladder.

“I...look, I’m really sorry,” Bulma twiddled a strand of curly hair between her fingers, and Zarbon found himself jealous of its shine and texture, “but we’re limited for space, you see, and there are only so many available beds...” She broke off and gave him a look of such pity and sympathy, and then broke the news. “You’ll have to room with Nappa for now.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Zarbon’s voice was flat and his lip curled with distaste. It was that moment that Nappa decided to open the door from within, obviously having heard them.

“I’m not thrilled about it either, Greenie,” he sneered, crossing his arms over his bare chest and making a rather menacing blockade of himself.

“Oh please,” Zarbon shot back, his entire posture changing subtly to face the threat before him, “you wouldn’t stand a chance against me.” Bulma felt the subtle shift in the air, the static charge that made her arm hair stand on end, and promptly inserted herself between the two posturing warriors.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, shifting her head from side to side to glare in turn at each man. “I don’t know who’s stronger and right now, I don’t give a damn. You can beat the crap out of each other as much as you like in the morning but it is past your bedtime, boys.” She scowled at Nappa until he stepped back, grumbling, into the bedroom, finally allowing Zarbon through the door.

“I’m not into dick, prettyboy,” Nappa grunted as he crawled into bed and tucked himself in extra tight, “so don’t get any ideas.”

“Ugh, I wouldn’t go there even if yours was the last cock in the universe.” Zarbon sneered, before aiming a pleading look at Bulma, who shooed him toward the extra bed. “Is there really nowhere else?”

“Not since the androids woke up, no.” She shrugged apologetically, thinking of the mish-mash of sleeping arrangements. Piccolo had done the gentlemanly thing, surprising them all by giving up his room to Eighteen so that she might have some privacy. He’d moved his meagre pile of possessions into Krillin’s room, while Seventeen bunked with Sixteen, and poor Tien was relegated to a cot in Roshi and Oolong’s room. She didn’t even want to think about the adult nameks, all of them forced to share two rooms that had been hastily converted from storage areas upon their arrival. “I guess you could go find a couch somewhere if you really wanted to, but you’re likely to be disturbed. The nameks are usually up and wandering around most of the night; I think they only need a few hours of sleep.” She stopped her rambling and shrugged again. “Anyway, go to bed. All you have to do is sleep here.” Bulma reached up and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, all the while aware of Nappa’s glare. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Get the hell out, woman! I want to get to sleep some time this century! If you need to have a heart to heart, do it outside!”

“Ugh, _goodnight_ Nappa. You boys have fun together,” Bulma cooed as she left the room. The door slid shut behind her and she scurried away down the hall; she wasn’t breaking up any more fights tonight and wanted to be well out of hearing range before she was obliged to step back in. It had been a very long day and she still had Vegeta to contend with before she could relax into the blissful oblivion of sleep for the night, and she’d be up early again to try and get the gravity machine operational.

It was a short trek to her bedroom, thank goodness, and she was pleased to see that Vegeta was already there waiting for her. He sat cross-legged on the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the small tablet computer that lay before him. He was no doubt reading up on all the latest news, ascertaining their position in Frieza’s priority list, planning routes that would lead them away from the biggest and most well equipped of the emperor’s patrols. He liked to be two steps ahead of everyone around him; more, if he could manage it.

“So what’s the deal?” Bulma demanded, stalking up to the bed and planting her hands on her hips. Vegeta looked up at her, one eyebrow raised, and said nothing. “Zarbon!” she burst out, “you have got something up your sleeve and I want in.”

“What makes you think that?” he asked, slowly picking up the tablet and setting it on the bedside table.

“Oh please, Vegeta, I’m not an idiot,” Bulma rolled her eyes and turned away to dig in the dresser for her own PJs. “You hate him, he hates you,” she whipped off her shirt and bra and pulled on a worn tank top, “so why’d he want to come along, and why did you let him?”

Despite himself, Vegeta smirked. Bulma was many things, but as she’d pointed out to him on many occasions, stupid was not one of them. Her intelligence was one of the reasons he could actually put up with her for more than five minutes at a time, though a normal person might say it was one of the reasons he loved her. “His more irritating qualities notwithstanding, Zarbon may well prove valuable to us.” Vegeta said finally, watching with sharp eyes as Bulma slithered out of her pants and stood before him simply in her top and underwear. She turned away, hiding a smile as she heard Vegeta scoot closer to the edge of the bed. This was the point, she knew, at which he was debating whether to come to her or wait until she came to him. Bulma took great pride in causing the former. “He is a strong fighter, more so than Nappa or Radditz. It is better that he is on our side than against us.”

“Oh my goodness, call the media!” Bulma turned to face him, slapping both hands over her cheeks in mock surprise. “Is the proud Prince of the Saiyans actually admitting that he needs help?” She laughed and Vegeta sat still on the edge of the bed, giving her The Look; the one that suggested he suspected her of having some serious mental deficiency. He stood up to face her, as he often did when feeling defensive.

“I don’t even know where to begin correcting that statement,” Vegeta scoffed, crossing his arms in what Bulma privately thought of as the ‘proud saiyan’ pose. “I,” and he stressed the word so hard that the tendons in his neck bulged with the strain of it, “will not be needing aid to fight Frieza. It is you and your band of misfits I have recruited him for, because in case you have not noticed it, Frieza does not go anywhere without a full contingent of troops at the ready. We will be heading straight into his den, and I will not waste my time with the riff-raff.”

“Oh pardon me, your highness,” Bulma rolled her eyes and turned toward the dresser, where she grabbed her brush and attempted to make some sense of her rioting curls before bed, “I stand corrected.” Times like this she missed Yamcha, who used to offer to comb it for her sometimes. She suspected he’d learned the trick in the romance tips section of a magazine, but the thoughtfulness of following through on it had definitely earned him brownie points. Vegeta, more often than not, would simply scoff at her _ridiculous_ hairstyle, as though he were one to talk, and then mess up all of her hard work by digging his fingers through it when they...

Well, maybe Vegeta’s method had its merits, Bulma thought as a flush rose up her neck. A hum of interest rose from behind her as warm hands snaked from her hips to her belly and Vegeta pressed himself against her back. Bulma grinned in triumph, tilting her head to the side at the familiar feeling of teeth scraping her shoulder. Yamcha had also never been the best at reading her moods, unlike Vegeta who would probably know it a galaxy away if she had so much as a dirty thought.

“Do you want to brush my hair for me?” Bulma asked suddenly, leaning backward into his embrace.

“No,” Vegeta replied, so quickly and simply that it drew a laugh from her. She turned in his arms and, laying her own around his neck, kissed him.

“You never answered the second part of my question,” she said, after they parted.

“Zarbon is smart for all that he is a showboating, ass kissing pile of shit. He’s undoubtedly seen what’s going on throughout the universe,” Vegeta drew her back toward the bed, “and he understands that we are his best chance at getting the revenge he so desperately wants.”

“Soooo,” Bulma pursed her lips and frowned, pulling away, “how do you know it’s not a trick? This whole thing could be an act, a ruse thought up by those two to catch us. I want to trust him, but I’m scared. After Nail...well, Ginyu I guess...agh.” She let out a huge sigh of frustration and plopped down on the bed.

“His hair.”

“What?”

“Zarbon has done many things in service of Frieza. He’s betrayed and killed, and I’m sure most of it without regret. Faithful servant or not, he’d have done nearly anything to stay Frieza’s pet. Cutting his precious hair, however, is not on that list. That was not done willingly.”

“Oh god, you’ve lost it, haven’t you?” Bulma started up at her alien beau with a slack jaw. “You’re going to trust the guy because he got a bad haircut?”

“Yes,” Vegeta said, and Bulma blinked in surprise. “Doesn’t mean I won’t be keeping an eye on him, of course. You did set the computers to limit his communication privileges, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Bulma flopped backward so that she lay on the bed, while her feet remained on the floor. “The computers will only allow him access to generic channels and he is not permitted to send anything to any Empire comm-codes. Incoming and outgoing files will be routed through my account, just like everything was when we thought the leak was here on Red.”

“Good work,” Vegeta said, and Bulma was surprised at the compliment until she looked up to see him standing above her, an intent look upon his face. Gently, he nudged her thighs apart and came to stand between them. She hoisted herself up a little, propping her body up on her elbows as she watched him.

“Since when did you ever need compliments to get into my pants?” she asked, giving voice to the cynic in her head. Vegeta grinned.

“Feeling generous,” he said as he knelt down between her knees.

“Oh, is that so?” Bulma tossed her head back and laughed as he nudged her underwear out of the way. She loved it when he came begging.

.

.

It was the middle of the night, and Vegeta was doing pushups in the gravity room. It still didn’t work, but there was something about the place that made his workout feel more intense, as though he was doing himself more good than he really was. He was alone for once; the day’s events seemed to have tired everyone else out and if they were not sleeping, they were at least not puttering around on the training mats just beyond the door.

Bulma’s company had eased his troubles for a little while, but Vegeta had woken only an hour or so later, feeling restless and unable to go back to sleep. He’d thought about waking her up again, but knew that doing so would put her ‘get up early and fix the gravity machine’ plan in jeopardy, and so he’d refrained. Losing himself in her body, as nice as it was, was only a temporary relief from his concerns. Training, feeling his power level rise day by day, was the only true solace.

Vegeta had played it pretty cool earlier while talking to Bulma; he really _wasn’t_ all that worried about the possibility of Zarbon being a spy for Frieza, and that Orly kid was a glass-faced moron. No, he was worried about the women, and was once again kicking himself for not bothering to go out and meet the return of the prodigal perverts. He’d left Radditz and Nappa to see Orly away, and in a stroke of bad timing, Sixteen and those two idiots had shown up with three women in tow, a fact which Vegeta had remained ignorant of until _after_ they’d all gone safely away, having seen not only Zarbon, but Nappa and Radditz as well.

None of the saiyans were particularly hard to recognize; even if their faces weren’t all plastered on wanted posters round the universe, they weren’t exactly the kind of men who were easily able to fade into a crowd. Vegeta entertained very little hope that the trio of women hadn’t recognized at least one of the fugitives in their midst, and since he assumed they were already possessed of dubious morals, he didn’t doubt that they were probably working out ways to cash in on their good luck.

Vegeta stopped his furious pushups and sat back on his butt, one fist grinding into the floor as the other held up his chin. If he’d been aware of their presence, and of what they’d seen, he’d have killed those women. Instead, he’d found out belatedly because he’d been too busy training to take note of their weak ki signatures, and had given the belated order to run instead, knowing that they had to get away from Harbour Colony as quickly as possible. It was only a matter of time before Frieza knew of their general whereabouts and he didn’t want anyone following them back to Tarble’s home planet. As far as Orly’s fate, if he was stupid enough to stick around with them for long enough, he probably deserved whatever came to him.

“I should have gone back and killed them,” he muttered to himself, halfheartedly. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought of it, and if he’d thought for a second that Bulma wouldn’t find out about it, he’d have done it, too. Damn her fucking face, the memory of it hazy through the regeneration fluid, begging him to stop the unnecessary killing. He’d promised her, too, and what a huge mistake that had been.

Vegeta punched the floor again, this time leaving a dent in the metal panelling. It was awkward and strange, this partnership he had become involved in. On one hand, her companionship required a drastic change in his behaviours, in his very effectiveness as an enemy of Frieza. On the other, it was Bulma who’d supplied him with the means to maximize his training potential and strength, thereby increasing his chances at surviving an encounter with the icejin tyrant. He could leave and be free to slaughter anyone who looked at him wrong, or he could stay and gain the ability to pulverize the only creature he _really_ wanted to.

A sudden flash of ki outside the caught his attention, and Vegeta looked up to see Dende appear in the gravity room’s doorway just a moment later. He had both hands clasped in front of his white-robed body, and was looking to the floor right around Vegeta’s knees, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to make eye contact. The namekian child seemed absurdly small to Vegeta, who had perhaps never really taken the time to really look.

“What do you want?” Vegeta asked, gruffly. “Have you come for a match?” He cracked his knuckles and then his neck, tilting his head from side to side as he heaved himself up from the floor. Dende looked panicked for a moment and Vegeta sneered; no wonder the kid couldn’t control his own. “You’re interrupting my training.”

“You...you weren’t training,” Dende swallowed hard and forced himself to look up, to meet the intense glare of the saiyan prince whom he so feared and admired. “You were just sitting there.”

“I was meditating,” the saiyan returned, thinking maybe the kid might have a tiny backbone in there somewhere.

At this comment, a thoroughly Bulma-esque expression flitted over the Dende’s face and he said, rather dryly, “You were punching the floor.”

“What do you want?” Vegeta narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, and Dende watched with growing trepidation as his tail lashed back and forth behind his knees.

“Zarbon. He’s...not your friend,” Dende stammered, and Vegeta continued staring. “Gohan told me that you were enemies. So why...?”

“Why is he here?” Vegeta asked. “The real question is, why are you here? Bulma couldn’t help you, so you decided to come get me to kick him off the ship?”

“N...no!” Dende’s cheeks flushed a hot shade of violet and he felt his heart hammering in his chest. Truthfully, he had no idea why he was down here, talking to Vegeta of all people. He’d simply been awake, been restless. He’d felt Vegeta’s life force, a sort of low key agitation, and had followed his curiosity. He really hadn’t meant to say anything in the first place, either. “It’s just...he...he killed them. Everyone at Guru’s compound,” Dende let out a frustrated sob, though he refused to let his tears fall; the last thing he intended to do was to cry in front of this man. “How do you forgive that?”

“You don’t,” Vegeta said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. Dende wiped his running nose on one long sleeve and watched as the prince began to pace. His ki shifted as he spoke further, a subtle change that made Dende’s skin tingle just being near. If it hadn’t been for the low level, he might have wondered whether Vegeta was about to transform into his super saiyan mode. “There are people in this universe who would tell you that you can,” Vegeta retreated a little further into the room and Dende edged in so that he was no longer in the door frame, “Bulma, Guru. You should know, shouldn’t you?” he snorted. “But I’m not them, and since you’re here it’s plain that that’s not the answer you’re looking for. You can’t forgive him?” Vegeta shrugged, “Then don’t. Look at him and understand why he did what he did, but that’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to fix the past or bring anyone back from the dead. Maybe it’ll make you hate him less, and maybe it won’t, but that’s reality.”

“I...I still don’t...”

“Look,” Vegeta rounded on Dende, noticed the child’s trembling shoulders and chose to firmly ignore them, “I don’t give a shit about your feelings, okay? That’s not how I operate. You can curse Zarbon to the deepest pits of hell all you like, as long as you aren’t going to do anything to kill him. Fact is, I don’t like him either. He’s a prissy, self-absorbed, ass-kissing son of a bitch and he did his damndest to make _my life_ hell for a long time. But he’s on this side for now, and until that changes or Frieza dies, I’m going to look at his stupid, smug face and not put my fist through his brain, because he’s useful.” Vegeta turned and walked away, trying to ignore the sound of sniffling that followed him. “Do what you need to do, brat, to be able to look him in the eye. Beyond that, this whole _forgiveness_ thing,” his lips were curled back in a sneer as he said it, “it’s just a word.”

Vegeta stopped his pacing in the center of the room, standing with his back to Dende. Uncaring of the child’s presence, he resumed his stretching and dropped into a fighting stance, from which he began a series of katas. His eyes were closed but he could feel the little sage watching him, weighing his words in that brain of his, far too taxed and mature for someone of that age. Pre-pubescent leader of a handful of displaced people, all that were left of his once thriving race. Sounded a bit familiar, though Vegeta personally thought he’d handled it better. Pacifism handicapped the young namek, too timid to step on his own shadow, much less the toes of his so-called followers.

“I think...” Dende heaved a world weary sigh after a drawn out moment of silence, “that I liked Bulma’s answer better.” Vegeta snorted, but to his credit did not kick Dende out, instead allowing him to simply sit and watch until he drifted off, curled up on the floor against the wall.

Eventually Vegeta grew tired himself. A better man might have picked up the sleeping child and carried him back to his room, but Vegeta had little by way of paternal sentiments or sympathy for people who fell asleep in dumb places, especially after holding him up from his training. He left the boy where he was, though he did at least have the decency to turn off the lights on his way out. Bulma was fast asleep when he reached their room, and sprawled like a starfish smack in the center of their bed. Indulgently, he did not prod her awake but instead attempted to shift her gently back to her own side. She woke though, as she always did, and a mild snarl escaped her throat as she caught sight of the clock.

“What is it, Vegeta? It’s four thirty in the morning,” Bulma grumbled, shifting to curl against him as he crawled beneath the blankets beside her. “Seventeen and Eighteen are coming to get me at six...” He rolled his eyes and waited for her to settle as he thought of the twins, who trailed after her like puppies, and little Dende who was probably half in love with her.

“You know,” Vegeta said, after a moment, “for a woman who professes a complete lack of maternal skill or desire, you have nevertheless managed to accumulate a rather impressive brood of orphans.”

.

.

                It wasn’t until three days later that Dende finally worked up the nerve to speak to Zarbon alone, and it happened quite by accident. The little namekian had simply intended to use the washroom and had come upon Zarbon, combing out his hair in front of the mirror. It was quite short, compared to the day of the attack on Guru’s compound, barely ponytail length. Oddly, Zarbon seemed embarrassed to have been caught performing such a task, even though Dende was given to understand that brushing one’s hair was normal for those who had it.

                “H...hello,” Zarbon paused with the comb halfway through one side and met Dende’s startled eyes in the mirror. He watched the little namekian halt and hesitate, plainly debating with himself as to whether he was going to come in and complete his business, or turn tail and run. “You can come in, you know. I won’t bite.”

                “I know,” Dende said, a little belligerently, and then regretted it. He was embarrassed by his snappish behaviour, aware that it made him seem like a young child. Guru never would have acted like that.

                “Do you?” Zarbon asked, and this time he set the comb down and turned to face the boy. “Do you actually believe you are safe with me? That I am on your side?” He held Dende’s gaze, his own eyes challenging, as though daring the young sage to say no.  

                “...Yes.” Dende sighed, after a pause. He looked to the floor, his hands balled into fists at his side. “I believe you are on our side, I believe we are safe with all of you. But I...I...don’t like it. I don’t like it that you’re here.”

                “I understand that.”

                “Do you even regret it?” Dende demanded, incensed by Zarbon’s calm demeanour. “Do you regret killing them?”

                “Truthfully?” Zarbon asked, and Dende nodded. “No. I am not pleased by it and had there been a different way, I would have tried to avoid it, but I don’t regret it. I did what had to be done.” He turned back toward the mirror and stared hard at his own face, features strong beneath the shag of wet hair. “I meant it though, when I said I was sorry to hear about Guru.”

                “Well,” Dende sighed and looked away, “that’s something, at least.” There was something about Zarbon that made him difficult to look at, as though being the object of sight was somehow painful for him. “You are different now,” Dende added after a moment of thought, and watched Zarbon reach up to clutch at the braid that was no longer there.

                “Frieza saw to that,” he replied, bitterness staining his words. Zarbon understood what the child meant, and it galled him to the core that his weakness was so visible. It wasn’t just hair that he’d lost; it was his sense of being, of pride. Zarbon snatched up the comb instead and ran it through his wet hair, shivering as a few drops of water dribbled down his neck.  He felt utterly pathetic, and the last thing he wanted to do was to fall apart in front of a child.

                “I think...I don’t know what you went through,” Dende said softly, “but Guru always said that a little humility was for the best. As much as I want to, I can’t hate you like this.”

                “As much as I respected Guru, I doubt he was ever shackled and beaten and...” Zarbon swallowed thickly, unable to say it to a child.

                “True, but Guru believed that we are all formed by our experiences, and from hardship comes strength. When we face adversity, we must choose how we deal with it, and from those choices, character is born.”

                “And what do you believe? Or are you just a clone, meant to regurgitate every thought and feeling he ever had?” Zarbon wasn’t sure why he was baiting the kid so; he’d never had a problem with Guru, and wasn’t he supposed to be trying to make peace with Red’s crew?

                “If you knew me at all,” Dende glowered at Zarbon, “you would know that I am failing miserably in my attempts to emulate my late master. Were I not, forgiving you would be so much easier.”

                “I know my opinion probably means very little to you, but living your life according to someone else’s ideals...it won’t work out. Trust me, I know.” Zarbon grimaced into the mirror, wishing someone had told him that when he was Dende’s age, and wondering whether or not it would have made a difference.

                Dende cocked his head to the side, thinking, and was surprised to find a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what Bulma said. She told me that I should be myself and do what I thought was right.”

                “She seems like a smart lady.”

                “You know, it’s too bad I had to watch you kill my people. If not for that, I think I would like you very much.” Dende sighed heavily, but he breathed more easily than he had in quite some time, as though some weight had been lifted from his chest. Zarbon nodded his head and said nothing, so Dende nodded back, and walked past him toward the bathroom stalls. He was deliberately slow about his business, and by the time he emerged again, Zarbon had gone.

 


	44. Chapter 44

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: 

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PRESENT DAY

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                Burter had never realized just how trying it was being the leader of a squad. Ordering the others around was well and good fun, but in moments like these he found himself regretting Ginyu’s death and his own subsequent rise to power. He’d always known that dealing with Frieza’s fits was no picnic, but he’d always had the buffer of a superior officer to deal with the brunt of the lordling’s irritation. Now that he actually had to stand there and _listen_ to what was being shrieked at him, he was beginning to wonder how Ginyu had remained so loyal and chipper.

                Frieza was _boring_. There was no way around it! He’d made his point about five hundred times already, and there was really nothing to be gained, to matter how much the tyrant might wish it, by repeating it over and over and over again. Burter’s neck was beginning to hurt from all the nodding, the endless agreeing. Covertly, he reached up to give it a little rub while Frieza’s back was turned, all the while hoping all the activity wouldn’t lead to gargantuan muscles. His slender build was one of his few good points, and he didn’t think that his already poor looks would be helped by having a neck as thick as his head.

                Damn it. He’d never really had all that much cause to worry about his looks; sheer strength and power had always gotten him what he wanted in the past, but all this talk of Zarbon had him recalling their last meeting and the kiss that had left him reeling. And if he were to judge by Frieza’s raw voiced, spittle-launching tirade, finding the object of his attractions would be Burter’s very next task.

                According to some snitch or another on the edge of the galaxy, Zarbon had gone and teamed himself up with Vegeta, a fact that Burter was not thrilled about. Vegeta himself was straight as an arrow by all accounts, but that long haired grunt of his had been known to swing every which way available to him, and beside that fact, Burter had specifically asked Zarbon not to go off and get himself into a situation where they might have to face each other. He thought the rebel owed him at least that much, considering how he’d saved his life and all.

                “Ingrate,” he muttered to himself, though apparently not quietly enough, for Frieza whipped sharply around to stare him down. Burter’s hand dropped from his sore neck and he straightened his spine. “Zarbon, sire,” he said smoothly, “I still cannot believe he has turned his back on you, after everything you gave him.” Frieza’s black lips curled back and a snarl escaped his throat as he resumed his pacing. The hover chair he normally occupied sat dormant on the floor.

                “Vegeta!” Frieza shouted, incredulously. “Vegeta! Of all the rotten, shit-faced little...” he broke off, muttering to himself as he glared out the porthole, willing his two enemies to come into view. “I want you to find them, Ginyu,”

                “Burter, sire,” a nervous looking aide corrected, drawing the master’s ire.

                “Ginyu, Burter, whatever!” the tyrant shrieked, rounding first on his aide and then on Burter himself. “I don’t care! You,” he jabbed Burter in the chest with one sharp fingernail, scratching the black patina of the captain’s armour plating, “will track them down. You will beat them to within an inch of their pathetic little lives, and then you will bring them back to me so that I may tear them limb from limb!”

                “Of course, sir,” Burter saluted, all the while wondering how on Earth he was going to weasel out of this. Like he’d told Zarbon when they parted, he wasn’t going to go all out of his way to avoid killing the other man if that was what his orders were, but he didn’t exactly relish the idea of handing the lust of his life back over to Frieza. If it came down to it, he supposed he’d have to kill Zarbon himself, at least give the rebel a clean death, and then deal with the consequences afterward. The hard part would be convincing the other members of the Burter Brigade that the death was necessary or at least accidental. Funnily enough, he didn’t once question whether Zarbon would be amenable to the plan; he was fairly confident that anyone given the choice would prefer death to the torture chambers.

                Burter didn’t really stop to consider the idea that Zarbon might get the better of him and that _he_ might be the one to meet his end, even though Ginyu had so recently been killed by Vegeta. It wasn’t natural for members of Frieza’s elite forces to entertain the thought that they might die in battle, because who the hell enough would even be strong enough to dent them, much less kill them? Their supreme confidence in their own abilities was at once a necessary strength and a great weak point. Each and every one of them was cocky as hell.

                Half an hour of ranting later, Frieza finally dismissed them, at which point Burter realized he really had very little idea of what had actually been said in the latter part of the meeting. He’d no idea where the information had come from, when it had come, or even where he was supposed to be going. Some colony somewhere on the edges of the empire, he was pretty sure. Oh well, he shrugged to himself as he led his men from the control deck, someone would brief him later. What did it matter if he knew now, or five minutes before he climbed into his pod? If they were smart, Vegeta’s crew would be long gone already; it wasn’t as though Burter expected to climb out of his ship and come face to face with his quarry.

                “Where to now, boss man?” Jeice asked, coming up beside Burter as soon as they were free of the doorway and out of the master’s view. Reccoome followed closely behind and Guldo trailed several feet in the rear, shouting and begging for the rest of them to wait up. A split second later, he was in front of the group, red faced and panting. Burter sneered; he hated that little time-stopping trick, and he’d never particularly liked Guldo either. Maybe while he was figuring out a way to save Zarbon’s tail, he could devote some time to figuring out how to do away with the little toad.

                “We aren’t launching till tomorrow, Jeice,” Guldo puffed out his chest in that self-important way of his, the one that made all of his teammates want to punch him, “so it’s _my_ suggestion that we get in a little bit of training.” Behind them, Reccoome laughed.

                “You, train?” the big lug grinned down at Guldo’s fat little face, “All you do is sit on the sidelines and watch us fight! At best, you do a few jumping jacks before giving up.”

                “Not true!” Guldo insisted, spinning around to face his teammates, who were forced to stop and clog the hallway. “I...I train! I stop time and train so you don’t even notice! I do it for hours!”

                “Ohhhh,” Jeice grinned hugely, his teeth bright white against the ruddy pallor of his skin, “he _stops time,_ guys. No wonder we never, ever see him on the mat!”

                Guldo shot his longhaired comrade a glare and whipped back around to stalk away as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him. He sucked in a huge breath and held it so that he could put some quick distance between himself and the others, even though what he really wanted to do was go back and kick Jeice right in the nuts; he knew he’d never connect in the normal flow of time.

                Guldo was well aware of the fact that he was both slower and weaker than all of his other teammates. He might have suffered from massive and all-consuming delusions of grandeur, but he was under no illusions concerning his shortcomings as a fighter and perhaps because of that, he was all the more intent to prove himself as a useful member of the squad. His time stopping technique was eminently valuable, and Ginyu had hand-picked him, damn it, so why the others refused to give him even an ounce of respect was still a complete mystery to him.

                “So anyway, I’m thinking...hookers?” Jeice jabbed his two taller teammates in the ribs with outstretched fingers, and they both shrugged.

                “Yeah, okay,” Reccoome nodded, and Burter followed along. He really needed the distraction.

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                Orly watched Harbour Colony grow gradually smaller and smaller on the ship’s display screen. He’d done his best to warn the members of the resistance faction there and had succeeded in convincing many of them to flee before Frieza sent men in to seek Vegeta and Zarbon, but there were always those stubborn ones who insisted upon staying behind. He worried for their fates, and at the same time, he could not help but to respect them. Those were the kind of men and women who would die to keep the cause alive. If even one of the regular citizenry might be converted by their presence, they said, then they must stay behind.

                It was like a punch in the gut, to cut and run when the whole debacle was more or less his fault. If he’d only manned up done in the girls while he’d had the chance, the entire resistance population on this side of the universe might not have been in such immediate danger. Yul had certainly alerted the authorities by now, and if Mink was well and truly dead like he hoped, her statement had probably been all the more full of vitriol. Orly thought of the third, of poor, half crazed Sabriya, and sent up a small prayer for her soul. He hoped that she wasn’t looking upon him from wherever her people went in death, regretting the fact that she’d helped him.

                He consoled himself with the fact that his escape meant at least the majority of the rebels on Harbour Colony would also be safe, even though the effect was not nearly balm enough to soothe his shame over the whole ordeal. Orly turned away from the window, hoping that Frieza would not go overboard and destroy the whole colony, though it would certainly be within the tyrant’s power and temperament to do so. There were many friends still there, and the citizenry, while unwilling to stand up against their oppressor, had at least been more or less tolerant of the resistance population among them.

                Feeling his guts churn, Orly stood and made his way toward the command center of the ship. Harbour Colony was not the only rebel stronghold in this corner of the universe and the others would need to be warned, both of the incoming refugees and the potential threat that would soon be arriving upon their doorsteps. For once he had no speech prepared, no pretty words rehearsed down to the intonation of each and every syllable. He was among friends here, surrounded by those who would gladly help him, but Zarbon’s derision had stung him deeply. Orly found himself wanting the other man’s respect, wanting to see the look on Zarbon’s face next time they met, when he would learn that Orly was no longer reading out the words of others but speaking his own.

                Orly turned on the broadcast equipment and selected a wide range channel. While he was waiting for the computer to run the security protocols that would prevent their location from being traced, he set another program to record, so that they could re-broadcast the warning if necessary. The computer beeped and a small message popped up, indicating that the security measures were complete and the broadcast would begin in ten seconds.

                Orly’s hands were clammy as he reached for the microphone; he was awfully nervous, afraid he would embarrass himself. He watched the numbers count down to go-time, silently mouthing each one as it popped up on the screen. All too quickly it was time and Orly realized that he had no idea what to say. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

                “H...hello,” he began, and around him his comrades shot each other puzzled looks, for they’d never heard him sound so unsure of himself. Orly swallowed thickly, and flushed in embarrassment as the heavy sound reverberated across the galaxy. The sudden weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder startled him, and he turned his head slightly to the side to see Runey, nodding for him to continue. “F...For those of you who do not know me, my name is Orly, and I have long been a voice of hope for you. Today I bear bad news. A sighting of several important rebels was reported on Harbour Colony,” he said, recalling Vegeta’s demands, “and I fear that Frieza’s forces will soon be moving in. Most of Harbour’s rebel faction has successfully evacuated, but to those who remain, you are not safe on Harbour Colony, or anywhere nearby. When they do not find who they are looking for, the tyrant’s forces will fan out. If you must remain where you are, I must beg you to cease all suspicious and dangerous activities for the time being, for your own safety. It will be hard, I know, but do not think of it as cowardice to lay low. Survival in such times in anything but. When Frieza falls, the universe will need you there to rebuild. Keep safe, and Pr...” Orly paused, remembering Vegeta’s vitriolic condemnation of his signature phrase. “Keep safe,” he repeated instead, and it sat much better with him. He felt he had lost the right to tell these people what to think, what to do, if he’d ever had it in the first place.

                “Tell me,” Orly winced, meeting Runey’s eyes as he switched off the equipment and put the microphone down. If he could save at least one person from the impending inquisition, he would consider himself a success. “How bad did I do?”

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                Krillin watched Eighteen toss her hair to the side, and fumed silently. She was on the mat with Zarbon, he of the pretty face and super-sexy accent. Krillin himself had been hoping to take her on today, but he’d arrived at the training facilities too late and he was too shy to interrupt and ask if he could join in, especially since Radditz and Gohan were also sitting on the sidelines, waiting for a turn. Goku and Piccolo fought on the other side of the room, and Krillin could sense Vegeta and Nappa going hard within the confines of the gravity room. He shivered, feeling Vegeta’s power level as he powered up an attack; the prince hadn’t even crossed the threshold into super saiyan, and he was already causing the reinforced struts and beams around them to quiver.

                “How long have they been going at it?” Krillin asked Radditz, and then immediately regretted his particular choice of words. He scuffed his shoe against the floor and rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved head. There was no hoping that anyone with a saiyan sense of smell wouldn’t notice the dollop of cologne he’d splashed on after his shower that morning.

                “Bout twenty minutes,” Radditz answered, glancing down at the dejected looking man beside him. He knew a lot about Krillin, even though they did not speak often. Puar was chatty sometimes and liked to tell stories of the old days on Earth; the diminutive former monk had featured heavily in many of those tales, so the saiyan felt like he knew the former monk fairly well. Simply put, Radditz rather liked Krillin. He was the only human who’d come day after day to train with them back in the early days on Red Station, and for a weakling, he was pretty damn strong. Sure, he was no match for any of the saiyans, but the fact that he’d kept coming back purely for the opportunity to train had been impressive.

                “Hm,” Krillin grunted in reply, and resumed his usual practice of staring at Eighteen. She’d broken no more than a light sweat and her skin was shiny with it so that she appeared to glow. Her cheeks were pink and she was panting lightly, lips parted just a tiny bit as she breathed. He watched her whole body move, so graceful, as she dodged one of Zarbon’s attacks, only to be caught up in his arms as he pinned her against his chest.

                “He wouldn’t at least have the courtesy to be gay, would he?” Krillin wondered aloud, and it wasn’t until Radditz answered him that he even realized he’d spoken.

                “Nah, greenie’s bisexual,” the big saiyan shrugged. “Sorry man,” he added as Krillin’s face turned a characteristic shade of pink. “If it helps any, it doesn’t look like she’s too pleased to be where she is.” They watched Eighteen struggle in Zarbon’s grip, finally snapping her head forward, cracking him in the face with her skull. She jumped away, not looking the least bit pained, while Zarbon cupped his nose and tried to blink away the reflexive tears that had begun to stream from his eyes. He was swearing a blue streak at her and Krillin felt a bit better about the whole thing, even if he didn’t quite like the words coming out of Zarbon’s mouth.

                “Hey, hey, no need to be nasty,” he said, hopping off the bench and heading toward the fallen newcomer. Eighteen stood a few feet away, passively taking the barrage of insults. “C’mon, let me see,” he insisted, gently pulling one of Zarbon’s hands away. Blood was running down the bridge of Zarbon’s nose and over his lips, and Krillin could see the beginnings of some swelling. He had the decency to at least feel guilty about the sense of satisfaction running through him. “Looks like it’s probably not broken, though the skin did split here,” he reached up and poked the spot in question, drawing a groan from Zarbon, “and you’ll probably have some bad bruising and swelling.”

                “My fucking face!” Zarbon shrieked, covering up his nose again and glaring at the woman who’d caused it.

                “Aww geez, Zarbie, it’s not gonna mess up your looks permanently,” Radditz drawled, sauntering over onto the mat. “Nice hit, by the way,” he winked at Eighteen as he grabbed Zarbon’s elbow and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, come on, I’ll take you to see Sixteen and he’ll make you all better. Krillin,” he turned a wolfish grin on the flustered human, “maybe you should take a look at Eighteen’s forehead.” He waggled his eyebrows and Krillin could only glare back in irritation, figuring that the beautiful android would at any second declare that she was fine and assistance was unnecessary. To his surprise, she walked over and stood patiently next to him.

                “Am I damaged?” she asked, bending down so that he could clearly see her face, every flawless inch of it.

                “N...no,” Krillin stuttered, gently touching her unmarred forehead with one finger and then because he thought it might be the only chance he would ever get, he brushed his hand against her temple and tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. His fingers burned with the sensation of it and he snatched them back in embarrassment. An apology sat on the tip of his tongue but before he could voice it, she’d stood up straight again and paced back to the other side of the mat.

                “Good,” Eighteen said simply, and dropped down into a ready stance. “Now will you fight me?”

                “Oh,” Krillin took a surprised step back, looking as though he wished he could simply turn tail and run. This was exactly what he had wanted, but now that she was standing there, looking ready to pounce, he suddenly didn’t feel so confident. “I...I don’t think I’m anywhere near your level.”

                “I have watched you fight,” she said, cocking her head to the side, and his whole body burned with heat, “and your technique is different from the others. I would like to spar with you.”

                “Krillin,” Gohan shouted from the sidelines, enjoying the play by play. He might only have been a child but he knew what was going on and could hardly contain the grin that spread across his features. It might have been his uncle’s influence, but he was getting a little too much satisfaction out of this. “My mother says you should always indulge a lady’s whims.”

                “Chichi is very knowledgeable,” Eighteen put in, and with a sigh of resignation, Krillin dropped into his own stance and when she came at him, he tried very hard not to accidentally touch any of her lady bits.

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                Krillin was very different from the other men about Red Station, Eighteen reflected later on as she stood beneath the spray of the locker room shower. As usual she was the only one in the room, as Chichi rarely came to train when there were saiyans about, and the Briefs women usually only came into the training deck to watch. It was nice to have the place to herself but at the same time she wished that there was someone to talk to today. She lathered her hair with flowery smelling shampoo and wondered if she might be able to borrow a moment of Bulma’s time. The mother, for that was what Eighteen still privately thought of her as, had been very busy for the last several days with her experiments, and it seemed that there was always someone seeking her out for some reason or another. Bulma’s time was a valuable commodity aboard Red Station; all of the women were, in fact. While the warriors trained away, Bulma, Chichi and Mrs. Briefs kept the whole ship going. For three beings who possessed very little in the way of physical power, they certainly didn’t seem to have any problems keeping the horde of fighters in line. Without them, the entire operation would simply fall apart.

                Eighteen watched those three women closely, Bulma more so than the other two, and tried very hard to emulate their behaviours. It was difficult though, because she often did not comprehend the reasoning behind their various actions. In addition, they all reacted so differently to the same circumstances that she often did not know who to mimic. Bulma, more or less her parent, was the obvious choice, though Eighteen was aware that besides sharing a physical gender, they were not very similar. Bulma was boisterous and garrulous, while Eighteen was quiet and reserved. She did not often feel the need to speak out or call attention to herself. She was content to observe as life went by around her.

                At first, Eighteen thought it might have been part of her programming to act as such – how was she to learn how to behave without at first observing others? – but it was soon apparent that this was her ‘personality.’ Sixteen and Seventeen were of similar temperaments, and she was given to understand that such things normally ran in families. She wondered if Dr. Gero had been the same, because Bulma certainly was not. Sixteen spoke of their late father sometimes, but none of the other crew seemed eager to discuss him and on that matter her elder brother’s lips were sealed.

                Eighteen rinsed the shampoo from her hair and followed it up with a large glob of conditioner, which Bulma insisted would keep her hair healthy and shiny. Humans seemed to be very concerned with appearances, which actually suited her just fine. She could recognize physical attractiveness in her own features and in those around her, and though she was not exactly conceited, it would not have been wrong to call her a little vain.

                On that note, she wondered if she should go and apologize to Zarbon. Since leaving Harbour Colony, Sixteen had restricted the use of the regeneration tanks to serious injuries only in order to conserve their limited supply of medical fluid. No one knew when they might next be able to stop for supplies, and he did not want to chance running out at some critical moment. Zarbon would certainly not be happy about having to allow his nose to heal at a natural pace.

                Eighteen soaped up quickly, rinsing the conditioner from her hair as she rinsed the lather from her body, and stepped out of her shower stall. Unconcerned by her own nudity, she walked slowly to where she’d left her change of clothes and towel. She dried off and dressed at a leisurely pace, not really having anywhere else important to be, and took her time combing out her hair in front of the mirror. She twirled a strand of it tightly around one finger, wondering how she would look with big, full curls like Bulma’s, but when she released it, it fell instantly straight. She frowned into the mirror; not even a little bit of a wave. Obviously her father had had very strict ideas concerning her appearance. Oh well, she thought as she reached for the wall-mounted hair dryer, it wasn’t as though he’d done a poor job. Obviously his tastes had changed in the years between Sixteen’s creation and her own birth, but neither she nor her brothers were in any way ugly.

                Thinking of brothers, Eighteen wondered where Seventeen had gotten off to. He’d shown up for training that morning as agreed, but he’d ducked out early, saying something about having to assist Mrs. Briefs, and leaving her to partner with Zarbon.

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                Seventeen wasn’t sure exactly why he’d agreed to help Mrs. Briefs out, but he’d been glad to leave the training rooms behind. He liked to fight, sure, but not with the single minded determination that his sister seemed to display. Briefly, Seventeen wondered if it was the company or the activity she preferred, but he hadn’t really seen any overt signs of a romantic entanglement. The twins had not been programmed with much knowledge about sexual relations, but unlike Sixteen they possessed both working parts and a higher capacity for learning from the behaviours of those around them. They were learning the difference between romantic love and platonic love in a way that their elder brother would never quite grasp.

                In a way, Seventeen thought that his brother was lucky for that. There was a distinct lack of available female partners about Red Station and while he understood that some men preferred other men, he’d yet to feel any stirrings in that direction. Actually, come to that, he hadn’t really had thoughts about any of the women on board either, aside from a clinical notation of their relative levels of attractiveness. With one his sister, one his mother, another his grandmother for all intents and purposes, that only left Chichi, who was certainly an attractive woman, and yet not the sort to inspire fantasy. Nor, it seemed, were the women in Roshi and Oolongs magazines and videos. Again unlike Sixteen he understood the purpose of such things; unfortunately, they just held no interest for him.

                “Helooooo?” A bright voice chirped, “Earth to Seventeen? Oh, I guess that doesn’t work anymore, does it?” Mrs. Briefs cocked her head to the side and thought hard for a few moments before giving up. “Oh well! Come in, come in!” She wrapped dainty fingers around his wrist and tugged him into the doorway to what would eventually be her indoor garden. The groundwork had all been laid and Dr. Briefs had finished installing the new lighting and water systems only the day before, so the place was ready for planting. “My poor babies have just been waiting and waiting to get into their new homes, haven’t you darlings?” Mrs. Briefs cooed, prancing over to one corner of the room where all of her various planting trays and seedlings waited. She fluffed up the leaves of one or two and blew them all a kiss before turning back to Seventeen and leading him over to a surprisingly detailed floor plan, all done up in coloured pencils, complete with little pictures of each kind of plant and where it was supposed to go. He leaned in for a closer look, accustomed to seeing Bulma’s kind of blueprints, and was surprised to see that Mrs. Briefs had taken the time to sprinkle all the water surfaces with glitter glue.

                “What do you require me to do?” he asked, and she smiled, pleased for such a handsome helper. He didn’t look as strong as Tien, whose muscles she’d enjoyed watching while he laid out dirt and manure for her, but Seventeen appeared as though he’d have a gentle touch with her little green darlings.

                “You’re just going to help me plant all my sweeties. Don’t worry, it’s not hard!” Mrs. Briefs bustled in a closet and surfaced a moment later with an armful of fabric. “It would just take forever if I had to do it all myself! Here,” she handed him a brownish old smock and a pair of thick, orange gloves, “put these on! Don’t want to get all dirty, do you?”

                Seventeen grimaced, holding the awful things out at arms’ length. It wasn’t that they were unclean or smelly...just ugly. “Must I?” he asked quietly and she looked up halfway through buttoning her own smock.

                “Oh dear, I hadn’t even thought,” she looked down at herself and frowned. “They are pretty awful, aren’t they?” She drummed her fingers against her thigh for about a minute, before her face lit up like the sun. “Wait here!” she shouted, throwing off her smock and prancing out the door as fast as her feathered mules would carry her. She returned a few minutes later, cheeks pink with exertion, triumphantly holding a storage capsule in the air. She popped it and when the smoke cleared, a small purple contraption sat on the table.

                “What is that thing?” Seventeen asked as he watched Mrs. Briefs set one of his gloves beneath the machine arm and press down.

                “It’s called a BeDazzler,” she said, and he saw that a shining rhinestone had somehow become affixed to his glove, “and I never leave home without it!”

.

                “Miss Eighteen,” Dende called, a little bashfully. He quite liked Eighteen but she was so difficult for him to read and he worried overmuch about getting on her nerves. Bulma told him not to, said taciturnity was more or less the standard state for Gero’s androids, and so he’d been trying more and more to engage her. “Are you going to the new garden as well?” he asked, and when she nodded, he suggested that perhaps they could walk together. She nodded again and he scurried down the hall to catch up with her. “Mrs. Briefs told me not to come until later this afternoon, but I’m too excited to see the progress. She was going to start planting things today. All of the nameks are really looking forward to it,” Dende went on, smiling despite Eighteen’s stone-faced silence.

                “I am simply going to see Seventeen,” Eighteen answered. “I do not understand the appeal of this _garden_ that Mrs. Briefs speaks of, beyond its capacity as a food source. And yet she plans to devote a full half of the space to non-edible flora. Is this correct?”

                “Err...yes,” Dende looked up at the blonde android, his eyebrow ridges drawn down in a frown of consternation. It had never occurred to him that Eighteen had never had the pleasure of simply sitting in a field or a forest, feeling the grass beneath her feet. “I’m sure you’ll see, once it’s all done. Bulma said that her mother kept a beautiful conservatory on Earth.”

                “Beautiful...so it is simply there to look nice?” Eighteen asked, and Dende couldn’t help but to giggle.

                “Well, in a way it is. And yet at the same time it’s so much more. I can’t explain it,” he said apologetically. “The feeling of being in touch with nature, to know that even when you are not surrounded by people, the forces of life are still strong around you...” Dende trailed off. He was watching Eighteen closely and was gratified that she seemed to be thinking deeply about what he’d said. “I understand that on many planets, the gods watch over from above. We namekians believe that the planet itself is a god. The soul of the planet, I mean. Not precisely the rocks and dirt, but including them at the same time.”

                “So yours is dead then?”

                “Yes,” Dende nodded sadly, “but Namek was not the only god in the universe. There are others, all with power and strength.”

                “The saiyans refer to Vegeta as a god sometimes. Do you think he will become a planet one day?” Eighteen asked, not because she thought so herself, but because she was trying to understand what Dende believed.

                “No,” the little namek smiled widely at this notion, for even as he admired the prince so much, he knew Vegeta was not god material. “I think the saiyans do not use the word in exactly the same way.”

                “Oh,” Eighteen said, and the conversation dropped then because they had arrived at the door to Mrs. Briefs’ brand new conservatory. It was not the door itself that stopped the discussion flat, nor even the process of opening it. It was what lay behind it that took their words away and caused them to stand still upon the threshold, mouths gaping in awe.

                “What are you _wearing_?” Eighteen choked, and it was the most shocked that Dende had ever heard any of the androids sound. Seventeen stood halfway across the room, a bag of dirt upended over a stone trough. His smock glinted in the reflected light from the specialty lamps, nearly every inch encrusted with plastic jewels and rhinestones. He finished emptying the soil and tossed the bag aside before clapping the dust from his hands. Eighteen saw that his orange gloves had been studded with blue and white gems.

                “We _made_ them!” Mrs. Briefs gushed as she did a little twirl to show off her own smock, a veritable rainbow of rhinestones. She trotted over to the stunned pair to show off her own gloves, done end to end in tiny plastic gems. “Aren’t they just super snazzy?”

                “Yes,” Dende answered when Eighteen failed to, “they’re lovely.” Mrs. Briefs patted his head with her bejewelled fingers and that was when the namekian child noticed that aside from a very fine sheen of dust over Seventeen’s hands and arms, neither of them looked as though they’d been doing a lot of gardening. “We came to see what progress you’ve made,” he said hopefully, looking around at all the empty planters, the piled bags of soil in one corner, and the cluster of seedlings in the other, all still in their greenhouse trays and pots.

                “Oh dear,” Mrs. Briefs cocked her head to the side and blinked, “I’m afraid we’ve only just started the real work. We spent most of the morning getting ready.” She wiggled her fingers and the light glared off her fake jewels into everyone’s eyes.

                “This is our progress,” Seventeen pointed at the trough he’d just finished filling and Dende tried not to laugh at his so-serious face sticking out of the bedazzled nightmare.

                “We will be going then,” Eighteen said, just as Mrs. Briefs asked, “Would you like to stay and help?”

                “We have somewhere to be,” the android put her hand on Dende’s little shoulder and began to back out of the room. She wasn’t sure why she was dragging the boy with her, but whether out of politeness to her or a real desire to escape, he didn’t object. And she certainly did not want to stay and play around in the dirt, wearing one of those hideous things. She dared a glance at Seventeen, just as they were leaving, saw him shrug and go to pick up another bag of soil, apparently unbothered by his extreme fashion faux-pas. She shuddered and hustled Dende along faster, wondering if something had gone wrong within her brother’s programming.

                “Where are we going?” Dende panted, trotting along as he tried to keep up with Eighteen’s long stride. He felt a little guilty for not contradicting her earlier; he really had nowhere else he was supposed to be and could easily have stayed to help. Thinking on it, he realized he probably would actually have enjoyed the activity and resolved to go back later with a crew of whichever nameks were agreeable.

                “The infirmary,” Eighteen answered him immediately. “I may have broken Zarbon’s nose earlier, and my programming is telling me that an apology is the socially appropriate action at this time.”

                “Wasn’t that over an hour ago? Won’t he be gone by now?”

                “No, he is there. I can feel him.” Eighteen did not stop walking, though she noticed Dende was no longer keeping up. Since she was getting better at reading social cues, she decided to take a chance and _trust her gut_ , as Bulma would say. “Is something wrong?”

                “I...no.” Dende hesitated before shaking his head and skittering forward to once again walk by Eighteen’s side. It wasn’t that he particularly didn’t want to see Zarbon – that had gotten much easier since their awkward conversation in the bathroom – but more like he felt odd to be going deliberately to somewhere he knew the man to be. There seemed to be a large difference in intentionally going to speak to Zarbon versus simply running into him somewhere and making polite conversation thereafter. “Everything’s fine,” Dende added, and if it wasn’t precisely true, he thought, what did that matter? He might never forgive Zarbon, this he knew, but there was something to be said about Vegeta’s approach to things. He could carry this grudge in one hand, and some measure of affection in the other; the two were not mutually exclusive.

                .

                “Ahh, Eighteen,” Zarbon smiled as they entered the infirmary, but the expression was unpleasant and his voice was laced with sarcasm. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to break a few more of my bones so that your lunkhead brother here will let me use the regeneration tank.”He probed the swollen bridge of his nose with one hand, experimentally, and winced as he felt its size. The pain, he could deal with. It was looking like an escapee from a cosmic freak show that bothered him.

                “He refuses to leave until I allow him the use of a tank,” Sixteen said, “and I will not allow our supply of regeneration fluid to be wasted for such a minor injury.”

                “And so we are at a standstill,” Zarbon finished, sounding a trifle amused despite his annoyance with the eldest of the androids.

                “I will not do such a thing,” Eighteen said to Zarbon, for she didn’t quite understand sarcasm yet, “if it would be wasteful.”

                “I...I could help,” Dende spoke up from his place in the door frame. Zarbon hadn’t actually noticed the child’s presence and was somewhat surprised to see him there. Despite having made some sort of peace between them, avoidance had still been high on the little namekian’s priority list. “The injury is minor; I can heal it easily.”

                “You can?” Sixteen asked, and the surprise was evident in his normally staid voice. Dende nodded and without waiting for Zarbon’s consent, he moved across the room and hopped up onto a chair so that he was more or less level with the injured man.

                “May I?” he asked, reaching out with small hands and Zarbon nodded, wincing only a little as Dende’s fingers moved gently over his face. A moment later and they settled in the air an inch from his nose, splayed wide and glowing. Zarbon’s eyes widened briefly but he shut them against the bright light at the center of each of Dende’s palms. He could feel warmth radiating outward from that spot, and memories sprang up, unbidden, of sunbathing in his youth.

                Dende frowned to himself as Zarbon’s eyelids slid shut. He was breathing much more easily than he normally did while healing, and he’d yet to feel the familiar fatigue that usually overtook him within the first few moments of the process. It was why he typically only dealt with minor wounds; he did not have the strength of spirit or ki levels required for the massive energy output that large scale healing involved. He could do it, but it required intense concentration and will. Increasing his stamina and honing his ability was why he’d gone to study with Guru in the first place, with the rest only coming after the sage had sensed his potential.

 Dende’s breath hitched and the glow in his hands subsided momentarily, before flaring back up again even brighter. The warmth in his palms leached up his arms and through his chest, as though surrounding him with a hug. Guru had done this, hadn’t he? In the last moments of his life, he’d not only shared his knowledge and his memories, but he’d also unlocked something in Dende, the same as he had done for Vegeta.

                Dende flexed his fingers and looked at Zarbon’s nose, now returned to its normal size, the split skin slowly knitting itself back together. There was power running through his veins, enough that he could bring a man back from death’s door without himself collapsing from exhaustion as he might have done before. He had not expected this, not having healed anyone since arriving at Red Station, and the implication of this newfound potential to heal mortal wounds was startling.

                With a cry of anguish, Dende hurled himself off the chair and away from the very-nearly-healed Zarbon, who opened his eyes and jumped back in shock at the sound. “What happened?” he asked, “Are you okay?”

                “I could have healed him...” Dende turned wide, scared eyes up at Zarbon, before skimming over Eighteen and falling to rest on Sixteen. “Guru...he gave me this power before he released Vegeta’s. I could...” he bit back a sob and held out shaking hands, “I could have saved him with this.”

                Sixteen knelt down on one knee, even in this state towering over the small boy, and laid one huge hand on the small sage’s shoulder. “You could not have. I was there, I saw what happened. Guru chose to take in the power that Vegeta’s transformation was feeding out. If he’d not have done that, the likely outcome would have been the destruction of Red Station and everyone aboard.”

                “What transformation?” Zarbon asked, watching with confused emotions as the big android gathered the tiny child in his arms and stood up. Sixteen towered over everyone on the ship and Dende looked impossibly small in his grip.

                “Vegeta’s transformation to super saiyan,” Sixteen replied and Zarbon gaped in surprise. His stomach flipped suddenly over and he slumped down into the chair that Dende had been standing on only moments before. Was that what he was sensing from the saiyan prince? He had not seen any overt physical changes, but his hair stood on end when Vegeta was near and his heart raced as it had never done before, as though he’d just run a mile even if he was sitting at leisure.

                “Super saiyan?” he asked weakly, and Eighteen nodded, stepping closer as she moved out of Sixteen’s way. They both watched the giant android carry his precious cargo away, presumably to his bedroom or to council with Bulma.

                “Haven’t you seen it?” Eighteen asked, turning back to Zarbon after her brother’s departure. “The blue eyes are nice,” she said, glibly showing Bulma’s influence, for the transformation had never been a surprise for her. Having occurred before her birth, she viewed the ascended state simply as another facet of Vegeta, rather than with the awe that the others still showed. “But I think the black hair suits him better.”

                “Super saiyan...” Zarbon said again, turning the implications over in his mind even as Eighteen looked at him as though he might be simple. “Super saiyan? It’s real?” he asked, running one hand through his chin-length hair. His fingers twitched, itching to wrap around the handle of the favourite brush he’d left in his old room on Frieza’s ship. He wondered briefly what had happened to it before more important thoughts began to crowd his brain. “I thought it was all a myth, some hokey relic of their primitive, god-king religion.”

                “It is real,” Eighteen tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, trying to understand Zarbon’s odd reaction. It did not occur to her that Zarbon did not know about Vegeta’s transformation, indeed that no one outside of Red Station knew about it, nor did she really grasp the importance of it beyond a basic understanding that it made Vegeta a very, very powerful man.

                “Excuse me,” he said, one hand clutching for the imaginary braid that had once hung over his shoulder, “I...I have to go.” He bolted from his chair and all but ran from the room while Eighteen, with nothing better to do and curiosity sparking somewhere around her left temple, followed him right back down to the training levels. They made it just as Vegeta and Nappa were walking out of the gravity chamber to meet Bulma and Puar, who between them carried the pieces of a full suit of armour. Eighteen recognized it as Bulma’s prototype, based on the plans for the ki-absorbing armour stolen from Frieza’s research base. Thanks to Sixteen’s need to teach and Bulma’s need to chat, Eighteen knew a great deal of Red Station’s history and she’d heard tales of most of their exploits.

                “Show me!” Zarbon roared, bursting through the door with a bang and startling everyone inside. Bulma dropped a boot from her pile while Puar clutched a breastplate tight to his chest, and all of those still training stopped to watch the spectacle. “Right now!” the newcomer demanded, striding across the mat to stand about ten feet from Vegeta, who’d halted halfway through the door to the gravity chamber, with Nappa behind him, plainly eager to get out and pound some respect into Zarbon. “Super saiyan,” he added, when Vegeta simply stared without saying anything, “why didn’t anyone tell me?”

                “Calm down, you crazy old hag,” Vegeta rolled his eyes and finally stepped from the threshold with a single, unintelligible syllable to Nappa, who grumbled but remained obediently in the doorway instead of rushing out to deliver a lesson in manners. “Is that the prototype?” Vegeta asked, walking toward Bulma, turning his back toward Zarbon in the process, and plucking a pair of heavy, padded pants from her grasp. “It’s bulky,” he said, grimacing at the thickness of the material and the flexible, ki-absorbing plates within. “You expect us to fight Frieza’s forces in this?” He raised an eyebrow and Bulma snatched them back.

                “It’s a prototype, Vegeta,” she snapped. “You understand the word, right? I just need you guys to do some targeted testing of the plates,” she shifted the leggings in her grasp and pointed to one of the thickest points, strategically sewn in to protect the quadricep muscles in the front of the thigh. There were similar plates designed to cover the other major muscle groups as well, giving the garment the look and feel of something earth sportsmen might have worn in a rough contact game. “Anyway, when you have time...” she trailed off, darting a look at the seething Zarbon from the corner of her eye. She’d hoped to get some test data right away, but there was a large vein throbbing at the green man’s temple and he was reminding her of Vegeta more and more with every second.

                “Put it all over there,” Vegeta shrugged and pointed toward the door to the gravity room. “Is it big enough to fit Nappa?”

                “Do not,” Zarbon hissed, crouching down, “IGNORE ME!” He launched himself forward on the last syllable, loud and furious, and in the split second before he was to have made contact with the saiyan prince, a blinding light burned his eyes and he was thrown back with surprising force to crash against the wall. Dimly, he heard Bulma and Puar shrieking, and when he could see again after much pained blinking, he found Radditz and Gohan crouched over him. Snarling, he hopped to his feet and shoved them both away, though he lost his nerve a little bit when he saw Vegeta, standing still in the same place he had been the whole time, bathed in a golden glow and not even breathing hard from the exertion of the attack. He shifted his shoulders and turned his blonde head so that Zarbon could see just one half of his face, piercing blue eye glaring out from beneath the arch of a raised brow.

                “What the fuck was that?” Vegeta asked, a little too quietly, a little too calmly, and though every instinct was screaming at him to stay away, Zarbon stepped forward and crouched into a battle stance. Even without the ability to sense ki, he could feel a heaviness in the air, a spark that caused all the hair on his body to stand on end.

                “Get me a scouter,” he choked out, to no one in particular, and it was Bulma who answered him.

                “No good, we’ve tried,” she said, and he noticed that she still stood particularly close to the golden saiyan, unafraid of the pulsing energy that radiated from him. Was she unable to feel it, or was she just stupid, he wondered. “They can’t read levels this high. It shorts them out.”

                “Fight me, then,” Zarbon insisted, looking Vegeta in the eye, “and let me figure it out for myself. You’ve never seen Frieza in his second form, never gone against him in a fair fight. I need to see how strong you are.”

                “Fine,” Vegeta sighed, and then turning back to Bulma he said, “stick around with that, will you? This won’t take long.”

                Zarbon ignored the jab and waited while the others cleared the mat. Piccolo and Goku looked put out, having been training there themselves, but at the same time they were both curious to see how this would play out. Zarbon was beginning to wish he’d not done this so publicly, as he had complete confidence that Vegeta was going to kick his ass, but he wasn’t one to sit around and analyze his rash decisions overmuch. He’d done what he’d done, and now he was left to deal with it. Simple.

                Vegeta took his sweet time stepping up and taking a fighting stance, this and his breezy nonchalance all carefully designed to make Zarbon nervous and hesitant. Living for so long at Frieza’s side, however, he knew all the tricks and besides that, the power wafting off of the prince spoke for itself – there was no need to play games on top of it.

                “All of your pointless posturing will have no effect on Frieza. You know that, right?” Zarbon sneered, and when Vegeta simply laughed he launched his first attack. He didn’t even make it within hitting range before he was blown back again with a pulse of Vegeta’s aura. Again and again he tried, and failed, to land a hit.

                “Are we done yet?” Vegeta snarled, lashing out to knock Zarbon back into the wall again. “I fail to see the point in this. You can’t even get close to me, what do you expect to learn?” He crossed his arms and stood still while those watching cringed at the impact of Zarbon’s body, the clang of it echoing around the room. Bulma and Puar looked away uncomfortably as Zarbon surged clumsily to his feet, head shaking to try and clear away the disorienting tilt and whirl of the room around him.

                “Here it comes,” Radditz whispered into Puar’s ear as Zarbon steadied himself and began to gather power. “Reason number one why you don’t want to date him instead of me.”

                “What are you talking about?” Puar hissed back, momentarily taking his eyes from the grunting, hunched form in the center of the mat. “Why in the world do you think I want to date him?”

                “Well, you’re always staring at him...I know he’s prettier ‘n me, and all,” Radditz’s cheeks were red and he refused to meet his mate’s eyes, instead staring intensely at the fight.

                “Radditz, you’re an idiot,” Puar punched the saiyan in the arm as hard as he could, which didn’t really have any effect pain-wise, but served to at least force the man’s attention in his direction. “I’m not staring at him, I’m glaring at him, and it only happens when _you_ get all cozy and flirty.”

                “I don’t!”

                “You do!” Puar insisted, but their imminent spat was interrupted by a scream from the center of the mat, where Zarbon appeared to be spasming with pain as his body bulged and shifted from its usual svelte proportions. “Holy crap,” Puar breathed as Zarbon’s handsome face widened and pushed out to form a lizard-like snout lined with fat, elongated teeth. Beside him, Bulma yelped with shock at the drastic transformation and Eighteen, it seemed, was the only one who appeared unbothered by it.

                “You think that’s going to help you?” Vegeta sneered, bounding forward to attack Zarbon in earnest, instead of just reacting to the other’s moves. He slammed into the lizard man who this time, surprisingly enough, was at least able to take the brunt of the attack and slip away to the side with minimal damage.

                “If that’s all you’ve got,” Zarbon huffed, still trying to regain his breath from the exertion of transforming, “then we’re all fucked.”

                “Ha!” Vegeta threw back his head and barked with laughter, “I’m just getting started, you poor, pathetic salamander! I’ll squash you beneath my boot and then we’ll see what’s what!” He whipped out and caught Zarbon by the back of his shirt, hauling back and putting Zarbon’s right kidney in perfect line with his other fist. Krillin entered the training rooms just in time to see Vegeta shove Zarbon forward, stumbling a few steps to trip to the ground. He’d left after his morning bout with Eighteen and had been relaxing elsewhere, but feeling the spike in both Vegeta’s and Zarbon’s kis, he’d come rushing to see what all the commotion was.

                “Is that...Zarbon?” he asked, edging in beside the crowd of spectators. “What’s going on?”

                “Zarbon didn’t know Vegeta was a super saiyan,” Eighteen said, blandly. “He had a rather odd reaction when I told him. He came down here and insisted to be shown.”

                “He wanted to compare Vegeta to what he’s seen of Frieza,” Radditz added, but Krillin found himself stuck on what Eighteen had said.

                “Why were you talking to Zarbon?” he asked, quite boldly, though he was embarrassed by the indignation in his voice. Even if Eighteen did not hear it, he was sure the others would.

                “I thought I might have broken his nose. I went to apologize. Dende came with me and healed it.”

                “You took _Dende_ to see Zarbon?” Bulma stuck her head out so she could look at Eighteen down the row of spectators. “Oh man...”

                “He...volunteered,” Eighteen said, and she felt something unpleasant in the pit of her stomach, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Was she not supposed to have done that? It was not as though she’d forced the boy; he’d tagged along of his own volition.

                “Where is he now?” Bulma asked, glancing over at the fight as though she couldn’t decide whether to stay or to go find the little namek.

                “With Sixteen, last I saw him.”

                “Oh, that’s okay then,” Bulma sighed with relief but Eighteen did not feel altogether better. The boy had been quite upset at the time of their parting and she debated with herself whether or not to tell Bulma. She did not want the Mother to blame her, and she wondered whether she should have followed Sixteen and made sure that Dende was alright, rather than trailing down here after Zarbon. The uncomfortable feeling intensified. Guilt was not something she had ever experienced before.

                Naturally, the fight continued as they spoke and when they finally turned back to it, Zarbon was considerably worse for wear. He’d managed to land a few hits on Vegeta, but he was swaying on his feet, obviously outclassed. A punch from Vegeta sent him skidding across the floor, nearly bowling over the small group of watchers, and Bulma decided to step in.

                “I think that’s enough,” she said, motioning for Radditz and Goku to come and help Zarbon to his feet while Vegeta stood watching, triumphant. “He’ll have to go into a tank, there’s no sense in beating him further.”

                “Sixteen won’t like that,” Eighteen said, and offered a quick explanation that had Bulma rolling her eyes at the injured man.

                “Ugh, I should let you suffer, just for being a jerk earlier,” she sighed, but shook her head and turned to the others. “Just put him in for a deep healing cycle. The superficial wounds and mild bruises can be left to heal on their own.” She turned to Vegeta, “This is a real waste of regen fluid, you know,” she snapped, and he shrugged, uncaring.

                “Quit yammering,” he said, and pointed to the pile of forgotten armour on the floor. “I thought you wanted to collect some data on this junk heap.”

                “It is _not_ junk,” Bulma glared, hands on hips as Goku and Radditz slung Zarbon’s arms over their shoulders and helped him limp out. From his spot in the doorway to the gravity room, Nappa rolled his eyes at Bulma’s tirade, wondering how long she was going to stand there shouting about her genius, all the while wasting precious training time. Piccolo had already wandered off into the corner to meditate and Krillin turned to leave, seeing as Eighteen seemed focused on Bulma. To his surprise, she caught up to him halfway down the hall.

                “I have a question,” she said, without preamble and he was startled, as always, by her directness. She had not yet mastered social niceties and while it was on one hand quite startling to be so suddenly put on the spot, it was at times quite refreshing. Unlike many of the women he had been involved with over the years, he could trust that Eighteen was never likely to play games. She simply did not know how, and he dearly hoped she would never learn.

                “Go ahead,” he said, nervous as she came up beside him, shortening her stride to match his own.

                “I took Dende with me when I went to see Zarbon. Was that bad?”

                “Not...in itself.”

                “He got upset and Sixteen took him away. I didn’t make sure he was okay; I followed Zarbon instead. Was _that_ bad?”

                “Well,” Krllin paused, looked up at Eighteen and then away, guiltily, “maybe just a little.”

                “I did not think of it at the time,” she said, “but I feel...unpleasant somehow...when I think of it.”

                “Guilt,” Krillin said. “It’s called guilt, when you feel bad about something you’ve done. D...don’t worry though. If Sixteen was with him, I’m sure that he’ll be alright. You...know what happened between them?” he asked, and Eighteen nodded once. “It’s not your fault that Dende went with you, or that he got upset. He could have chosen to go elsewhere. But, well,” and he tried not to sound too condescending, “it would have been nice of you to make sure he was okay.”

                “Oh,” she seemed to deflate a little “should I go apologize?”

                “I don’t think you need to apologize, per se,” Krillin reached out and took Eighteen’s hand in a bold move, and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before letting her go, “but why don’t you and I head to his room and see if he’s alright.”

                “Okay,” Eighteen said, and to Krillin’s absolute surprise, she reached out and took his hand again. He flushed from the soles of his feet to the top of his head but said nothing. He had no idea if she even understood the significance of the gesture, but he was happy to walk hand in hand with her until they hit the ladder to the next deck, forcing them to part and go up single file.

                When they reached Dende’s room, they were shocked to find it packed full of nameks, each and every one with a wary look on his face.

                “Oh dear,” Eighteen said, and it was obvious to Krillin that she’d picked this particular mannerism up from Mrs. Briefs, “did we come at a bad time?”

 

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So I figure that if Frieza et al. can call the saiyans ‘monkeys’ all the time, salamanders might also be known in the universe beyond Earth. Also, yes, Mrs. Briefs has been carrying that BeDazzler around since she got on the ship in chapter 2. Is that so hard to believe?


	45. Chapter 45

claimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  So I forgot to mention last time that I am sort of back in school – just taking a few courses at the University as an open studies student for my own interest. I am honestly surprised at how much they’ve impacted my update speed, and I apologize for that.

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Last time: Dende discovered that his powers had increased dramatically, while attempting to heal Zarbon’s broken nose. The shock of it, coupled with the realization that it was undoubtedly Guru’s last gift to him, left him upset and in the care of Sixteen. Zarbon, meanwhile, discovered Vegeta’s ascension and after demanding to see it, got the tar beaten out of him and ended up in the regeneration tank. Eighteen and Krillin, on their way to make sure Dende was alright, were surprised to find the boy’s room crammed full of his kind.

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PRESENT DAY

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                 Sixteen patted the little namekian boy gently on the head, his palm alone spanning nearly the entire length of the child’s skull. Obeying some unbidden, unexplainable impulse, he turned and sat down on the bed beside Dende. His weight caused the mattress to dip and the boy to lean unintentionally into him. Sixteen put an arm around Dende’s shoulders and squeezed tight. It was something he had seen Chichi do to Gohan on occasion and it seemed appropriate. “Losing someone is difficult,” he said in his deep, monotone voice, “even I understand that much. I cannot fathom how much more you must feel it.”

                “I...I’m not sure why I’m even reacting this way,” Dende wiped his eyes roughly with the long sleeves of his white tunic. He was embarrassed at the way he’d fallen apart in the medical bay, especially after he’d congratulated himself on being so brave as to go and see Zarbon in the first place. “I thought I was alright, I really did. I had gotten over Guru’s death, but then...” he looked down at his hands, frowning, “I felt him, his power, move within my veins, within my very soul...” Dende sniffled, turned to the side just a little and buried his face against Sixteen’s chestplate. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to sit, but he was embarrassed by his tears and the burgeoning flush around his eyes and nose.

                “I am given to understand that emotion does not always follow the conventions of rationality or logic,” Sixteen frowned down at the little boy, not with irritation but with frustration. He didn’t know what to do, and he wondered whether it might be appropriate to go and find someone who would. Bulma, for example, or Chichi.

                “That’s true,” Dende snuffled after a moment, and Sixteen had the feeling that he’d helped somehow. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d said, but the tension in the boy’s shoulders seemed that much less, and his tears had slowed. It was that unfortunate moment, just as things were looking up, that Oboe decided to barge in.

                “What is going on here?” he demanded, glaring back and forth from the child prophet to the huge android. “What did you do?”

                “Android Sixteen is not at fault, Oboe,” Dende said, and even Sixteen could tell that the boy’s voice was exceptionally cold. The old namek narrowed his eyes, brow ridges drawing down in anger. “Did you need to speak to me?”

                “You were late for our council, Dende,” Oboe returned tightly and Dende flushed a violent shade of plum as he recalled the date and time, immediately regretting his earlier haughtiness. “I should think we all have something to discuss with you, given the state I find you in.”

                “Oh no...” Dende frowned, twisting his hands in his lap. Shyly, he looked at Sixteen. “I think you’d better go. I have...ahh...business to attend to, I suppose.”

                Sixteen looked from the little boy to the old man, and back again. “Will you be alright?” he asked, and Dende nearly laughed at the look on Oboe’s face. He’d never considered the fact that he might appear to be in danger.

“I will be fine,” he smiled at the android, who sighed heavily as he stood up. “Really, Sixteen,” Dende reached out and caught one huge hand in his own. He could not grasp Sixteen’s entire palm, so he settled for squeezing one finger, “I will be alright. Thank you for your concern.”

                Sixteen nodded once and gave Oboe a stern once over as he left the room. The old namek stood, back rigid with fury, as the big heathen left the room. “How...how dare he!” he squawked after the door slid shut. “What does he think he’s implying, that big, hulking...”

                Dende sighed, watching the old man fume and bubble to himself. What was it that Vegeta had said about Zarbon? I don’t like him, but I’ll tolerate him enough that I don’t put my fist through his face? Something along those lines. Dende straightened his back and wiped his face. Maybe he wasn’t capable of being as mean as Vegeta was, but he thought it was about time he started standing up for himself. “Oboe,” he said sharply enough that it startled his old comrade to attention. He tamped down on the guilt he felt over having forgotten the meeting with his kinsmen and ploughed forward, as bullheaded as his two idols. “You should be pleased for Sixteen’s concern, should you not? I myself am thrilled to have such friends to watch over me.”

                Oboe went silent with shock, his mouth hanging open to reveal pearly white fangs. He huffed, looked as though he was about to say something, and then went quiet again. Who was this tiny demon now inhabiting the young sage’s body? What was this sudden sass-back?

                “Is everything alright?” Tambourine poked his head in the door and Dende could see Fife hovering in the background. “I heard shouting.”

                “Thank you Tambourine, everything is just fine. I’m glad you’re here,” Dende puffed out his chest and met Fife’s eyes. The older Namek grinned openly as Dende continued. “Could you summon the others, please? I’d like to hold the gathering in my quarters.”

                “I’ll get them,” Fife said quietly, after it became apparent that Tambourine had been overcome by the same condition currently affected Oboe. He quick-stepped down the hall and around the corner and into the namekian quarters where the others were waiting. “The gathering has moved,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to tame his smile as he met Bassoon’s surprised gaze, “to master Dende’s quarters.”

.

                It really was an awkward place to hold a meeting, Dende thought as he looked around at his gathered kinsmen, crammed all into the room that he shared with Gohan. The previous meeting spot, the quarters shared by Oboe, Tambourine and a few others, was not only bigger, but also uncluttered by the paraphernalia of two rambunctious boys. Gohan had the ability to be neat but usually only exercised it when he thought his mother might be stopping in, so boots, armour, books and various other things had been politely pushed aside by the visiting Nameks. Fife and Bassoon had made themselves comfortable on Gohan’s unmade bed, along with another pro-Vegeta Namekian who shared their room, Cymbal. Oboe and Tambourine were standing together by the closet, both with arms crossed and identical unpleasant expressions on their faces. Flute, Bell and Cello stood awkwardly by the door, as though they couldn’t wait to be out of the Saiyan’s den. The three of them were Oboe supporters though Bell roomed with the more lenient contingent and Bassoon swore up and down that they were beginning to sway him.

                “Is someone going to tell us what is going on?” Tambourine demanded once everyone had made themselves more or less comfortable. Oboe beside him was being uncharacteristically quiet and Tambourine was actually relishing the chance to speak up.

                “Hold your tongue, Tambourine!” Bassoon snapped back, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Unless it was your intent to reprimand our Master Sage?”

                “There will be no fighting here!” Dende yelped, instantly regretting not the sentiment, but the unbecoming squeak in his voice. He took a deep breath and tried his best to calm down as he levelled a pint-sized glare around the room. It was nowhere near as intimidating as Vegeta’s famous gaze, but coming from Dende, it was enough to shock the other Nameks into silence. “I know that none of you believe this to be so, but this room, as my residence of choosing, is now a sacred place. Discussion and dissent will be encouraged but there shall be no more pointless squabbling here. We are the last of our kind, the last of Guru’s flock. If there is nothing else between us, let there at least be respect.”

                “Well said,” Fife smiled quiet encouragement across the gap between the beds and Dende was grateful for his presence. Always there, solid as a rock and as silent as one, too. He was not pushy or overbearing, but his support was never in question. He, of all the other nameks, was who Dende would have chosen as Guru’s successor.

                “I...agree,” Oboe spoke up after a lull in the conversation, though he quickly countered much of the goodwill he’d just engendered in the other side. “Though I do not understand why you so insist on moving us here, my Lord,” he gave Dende a curt little bow of his head as he gestured to the room around them, “I agree that petty infighting will do us no good.”

                “Puffed up old goat,” Cymbal muttered to Bassoon, though he shut his mouth quickly when Dende’s sharp glare fell to him.

                “There will be a time for banter and teasing,” Dende said gently, looking around the room so that the gathered men might understand that this was directed at all of them, “but for now...” he sighed and focused on a spot on the wall, directly above Bassoon’s head, and tried to gather his words. “We are so fragile. So fractured and broken as a group. I want us to come through this together.” Dende cocked his head to the side, “I want us to be friends. Guru made me your leader and it is due only to my respect for him that I have accepted this role, but I am no Master. Perhaps one day I will be worthy of the title, but as I have said before, I am not a clone of our beloved Sage. I will never be that and I do not believe that Guru wanted me to.”

                “So...what does this mean for us?” Bell, the fence sitter, asked.

                “It means that things will be different. I will be different,” Dende replied, shrugging his slim shoulders apologetically. Before he could explain further, the door slid open with a whoosh to reveal Eighteen and Krillin, wearing identical looks of shock.

                “Oh dear,” Eighteen said, looking around at the room full of unhappy faces, “did we come at a bad time?”

                “No, it’s okay,” Dende smiled and gestured for them to come in. They did so slowly, Eighteen picking up on Krillin’s uneasiness. “I was just about to tell my brethren what happened today. I want truth between us, always,” he added, this time addressing the room at large. “Guru had many secrets, and while I understand now why he kept them, I would not have it be so amongst us.”

                “What kind of secrets?” Cello piped up, his eyebrow ridges drawing down into a wary grimace.

                “Nothing that it would have been better for us to know,” Dende replied. “My point is not to pick apart our late Master’s actions or thoughts, but rather to insist that while he always seemed to know what was best for us, I cannot claim the same. You, my gathered friends, will know all that I know, and we will share our knowledge, too, with our non-Namekian allies. And on that note,” he raised his voice to forestall the interruptions forming on the tongues of his comrades, “I wish to announce that my healing abilities have increased ten-fold, and that I have made my peace with Zarbon’s presence here and in our lives from now on. I would like you do try and do the same.”

                The wealth of chatter that erupted was so loud and forceful that poor Dende could do nothing to stem it He’d caused quite a stir and he knew that he’d shocked quite literally everyone in the room aside from himself, but he was oddly pleased at the result. Bluntness was something that he was not accustomed to and while he had to admit that his sudden declaration might have  been a bit too sensational, he couldn’t deny the results. It was out there, said and done. He straightened his shoulders and sat proudly, waiting for the coming onslaught of questions and accusations. The third announcement – a hastily formed plan to barter the physical labour of his clan as garden helpers for the use of the conservatory as a gathering space – would have to wait.

.

.

                Burter squinted through the two-way mirror at the woman in the holding cell. Her arms were crossed over her chest, resting between her two topmost pairs of breasts, and she’d pasted a furious look onto her face to hide the fact that she was scared shitless. “So that’s the one who reported it, huh?” he asked the port guard next to him. It had all been explained, several times in fact, but he’d just dismissed the other members of the squad and was curious to see if stories would change without the triple threat of himself, Recoome, and Jeice. Guldo had been present too, of course, but no one was ever intimidated by Guldo.

                Burter wondered what sort of fun his comrades would be getting up to while he was stuck here interviewing the bimbo. With any luck she wouldn’t take too much of his time, but after that there would certainly be other accounts to hear from the authorities who’d dealt with her and the dead bitches, and likely a mountain of paperwork. Again, he wondered how Ginyu had dealt with it all without wanting to put a blast through his own forehead.

                “Yes sir, Mr. Burter, sir,” the man nodded fervently and the motion drew Burter back to attention. The guard’s eyes were darting back and forth between Burter and the woman behind the glass. She’d obviously buttered up the guard staff a little; this was not the first man to make some sort of comment in her favour. It wasn’t hard to guess what kind of reward they were hoping for. “She’s been mighty cooperative,” he added hopefully, and Burter cocked his head. That counted for something, he supposed.

                “When did she place the report?”

                “Three weeks ago, sir, thereabouts.” The guard shuffled over to the desk nearby, picked up a folder and handed it to Zarbon. “Her initial statement is in there, as well as the coroner’s report and crime scene analysis that went on with the two dead ones.”

                “Hn,” Burter nodded, taking the folder between long fingers without sparing it a glance. He would look on his own time, and certainly not while the bulky meathead hovered around him. Burter was cranky and in no mood to deal with much of anything beyond a cold mug of alkabrew. He’d been too long in the pod and not enough on land, if Harbour Colony could really be called ‘land’ in the first place. He was still crampy, still achy, and at the moment the idea of throwing that woman down on the table appealed to him a thousand times more than the idea of interrogating her about Zarbon and Orly.  Pod travel was rough even for the under-average in height, so folding his nine-foot frame into one of those little balls was not exactly a picnic for Burter. He rubbed distractedly at a kink in his shoulder as he thought of the ride home, and thanked his lucky stars that he was at least slim and not a total brick wall like Recoome. The big lunk’s shoulders hardly fit and upon arrival he’d been wedged so tightly inside that it had taken both Jeice and Burter to haul him out. Naturally, Guldo had stood by and watched.

                The radio at the guard’s hip crackled and squawked, the words unintelligible to Burter but seeming to make perfect sense to the guard. “If you’ve no further need of me, sir, I ah,” he paused, obviously trying to figure out how to gain the dismissal he needed without offense, “I am requested elsewhere.”

                “Get going, you’re only in my way anyway,” Burter jerked his head toward the door and slid into the chair behind the desk so that he could still see the waiting woman through the glass. She had a pretty enough face, he supposed, but she was rough around the edges. Ridden hard and put away wet. Not Zarbon’s typical type, from what he knew of the other man. Then again, Burter himself wasn’t either, so he didn’t know quite why he was trying so hard to analyze her. He shook his head and opened the folder, splaying its contents out on the desk before him. Her entire history summed up in a few sheets of paper, and the only important thing the random encounter that had led her here.

                Dutifully, Burter skimmed through the report and made mental note of all the important bits – basically nothing. She had a rap sheet a mile long, but it was full of petty crimes, nothing to make him think she might be more involved in the resistance than she claimed to be. Minor theft, prostitution, extortion and blackmail, nothing he really cared about. The encounter with Zarbon was frustratingly brief and although that fact in itself was something of a relief, it was no help in terms of his objective. The woman in the cell obviously had no idea where to find his quarry and it was really a waste of time to question her, but orders were orders and he really had no qualms about delaying Zarbon’s inevitable death.

                “You shitty son of a bitch...” he muttered to himself, throwing the sheaf of papers back into the folder with little care as to order or straightness. “You were supposed to get the hell off the radar, and instead you fucking fly right into Frieza’s face.” He shoved out from behind the desk, tipping the chair as he stood so that it banged loudly against the wall and actually chipped out some of the plaster. Burter didn’t care, of course, hardly even noticed the crumbling dent he’d left there and certainly didn’t give so much as a thought to the fact that someone was likely to get into trouble over it. He had his own concerns and he wasn’t about to let himself be distracted.

                Yul jumped in surprise as the door slid open, the empty space soon filled by one of the tallest men she’d ever seen. She swallowed her nerves as she caught sight of the insignia on his uniform, her eyes slowly sliding up to his face. Burter, leader of the Burter Brigade; she’d seen his image on many a propaganda poster. “I swear, I don’t know anything,” she said, pre-emptively shrinking back into her chair. She had intended to put up a brave front, as she did every time she had been questioned since the incident, but she had not been expecting to be interviewed by one of Frieza’s top henchmen.

                “Shut up,” Burter yanked out his own chair and sat heavily down. He eyed her up and down, his irritation growing with each passing moment. “So basically you saw Zarbon for all of five seconds, cavorted around town with this Orly person, and allowed them both to escape with no knowledge whatsoever of where they might be going.”

                Yul nodded weakly and stomped down her irritation at his sudden, rude outburst. She wasn’t used to being treated this way by men; even the meanest of her interrogators so far had still tried to ingratiate himself with her, but Burter hadn’t even so much as waggled his eyebrow ridges at her. On one hand, it was refreshing to know that his mind wasn’t deep in the gutter, but on the other it meant she wouldn’t be able to manipulate him. That unnerved her. “It wasn’t so simple,” she defended herself, “but yes, in the most basic sense that is the truth.”

                “Any more details you can give me?” Burter waved the folder. Yul shook her head. “Did you fuck ‘em?” he asked, and her face flamed with fury. How like a man! Had she not been stared after and patted enough by the inept authorities of this colony, and now the very same thing from Frieza’s top goons?

                “That’s none of your business!” Yul snapped back, her temper overcoming good sense. She was not some lowly street hooker; she danced in a reasonably respectable establishment and when she did more than that, she chose her clientele, damn it! Not everyone with a dick was qualified.

                “Think hard,” Burter said slowly, dangerously, “and answer the question.”

                “NO!” she shouted back, slamming her hands on the table. “I did not take either Orly or Zarbon to my bed. That good enough for you, or you need to swab my cunt for DNA?” She gestured rudely down to her lap and glared across the table.

                “Won’t be necessary,” Burter stood up and dropped the folder back down on the table. He was tempted to kill her for that last bit of impudence and probably would have if her answer had been different, but he found himself slightly amused by her and besides, life itself was punishment enough for a woman like that. He left her then, puzzled and alone at the table as she watched him simply walk out. She sat alone for ten more minutes, not sure if she had been dismissed again or if she was meant to wait longer. One thing was for sure; she was never sticking her nose into Empire affairs ever again.

.

                “Hey big fella,” Jeice clapped Burter on the shoulder and pulled out the chair next to him. He signalled the bartender and held up two fingers as he settled himself in. A moment later, two frosty mugs of alkabrew were plonked down on the bar. He pushed one toward his captain, who up till that point had been rolling an empty glass back and forth between his palms. “Drink up sir!” he sketched a mock salute, “Looks like you need it.”

                At this, Burter sat up in surprise, his long back straightening so that he towered once more over Jeice. “Thanks,” was all he said as he picked up the mug and drained it dry in a few gulps. He really did feel a bit better with the fast-acting alcohol already seeping into his system. It numbed him a little, put a little barrier up between his own thoughts and the outside world. He ordered another round for himself and his comrade, holding out his credit chip for the bartender to scan. Two more mugs on the counter, and Burter belatedly realized that he should probably be careful with his alcohol consumption; Jeice was probably the only member of the team he’d ever consider opening up to about anything, but his hard-on for Zarbon was not a matter fit for public consumption. No matter what sort of half-friendship he thought he might have with any one of his teammates, he had to remember that they were Frieza’s warriors and their loyalties might not lie with Captain Burter if they thought they might have a chance at leadership themselves. Jeice didn’t seem to have much ambition in that direction; he’d not contested Burter’s promotion even though the position should rightfully have been his as Ginyu’s second in command. Still though, Frieza’s universe was one in which caution served a man well and Burter could see no benefit from sharing his secret that might be worth the trouble if he was outed to the icejin tyrant as lusting after the universe’s number two fugitive.

                Frieza could be blind to things he thought beneath his notice, but he was not stupid. Two and two would go together and Burter would be automatically pinned as a traitor...which, he supposed, he sort of was and sort of wasn’t. Yes, he’d busted Zarbon out of the slammer, sent him off in a stolen ship and caused the death of several of Frieza’s guardsmen and valued prisoners, but not because of any hidden sense of sympathy for the resistance. The decision had been driven purely by lust but of course that would make no difference to a lizard scorned.

                “You’re looking down in the mouth, mate,” Jeice said, gulping the last of his first drink so that he could move on to the second before it started to get warm.

                “Got nowhere today,” Burter shrugged, sipping his own drink more slowly this time. It was all on the tip of his tongue and he had to be careful that it did not slip free. Yes, he was irritated by the fact that Yul’s information had been next to useless, that they were even more lacking in direction now than they’d been at the beginning. He wasn’t looking forward to having to report a complete shortage of leads to his master. And yet at the same time, he’d been prepared for the inevitability and knew that Frieza was too, despite the rage that was sure to occur. The real problem was that despite being relieved at not having to kill Zarbon or turn him in, Burter had secretly hoped he might run into his prey.

                And then what? Burter shook his head, staring at the amber reflection in the side of his glass. What did he think was going to happen? Sex? Who was he kidding? If he crossed paths with Zarbon while his teammates were around, one of them would have to die and Burter had no intentions of drawing his last breath any time soon.

                “Damn,” Jeice said, glad that he wasn’t the leader. He had no interest in interrogation or planning or thinking. He was really just there for the violence and the team activities.

                “Yeah, bitch didn’t know a thing.” Burter took a huge gulp of his drink. “She saw Zarbon get on the ship with Radditz and Nappa, didn’t even see the monkey prince, and then she and her two little friends partied it up with that fucker Orly before turning the tables on him.”

                “Ugh, I hate that guy!” Jeice spat on the floor at the mention of Orly’s name. Frieza had an ear on the resistance and Orly’s name was one of the bigger ones. The whole squad had, of course, heard many of his broadcasts, and the group consensus was that he was a self-important, sanctimonious prick who had the unforgiveable gall to be on the wrong side. “What’s with all that praise be garbage anyway? And about fuckin’ Vegeta? Hell’s tits, man, talk about putting your gerwods in the wrong brindlebucket...” Jeice finished his mug and ordered another round for himself and the captain. “Man, you know when Ginyu was alive it woulda been you and me, gallivanting around having fun all day while he did the boring job. Now that you’re the boss, I had to hang out with Recoome all day and you know, he likes to party and that’s good and all but...well... He’s a weird guy. Hit too many times in the head, I think,” Jeice pointed a bright red finger at his shock of white hair, “and it’s left him a bit turned around up there. Killing people is all well and good, but my idea of fun ain’t exactly lining up with his,” he snorted and Burter couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. Recoome was a strong fighter and a loyal teammate, but a prime companion for a day out, he was not. No matter where you took him, someone always ended up mutilated. He’d probably been the kind of kid who pulled the wings off live flies for fun, only as he’d grown bigger, so had the prey.

                “Sorry man. Maybe leave him to Guldo next time?” Burter grinned and Jeice cackled aloud at the idea.

                “So anyway, you bang that chick you had to question?” Jeice asked after he’d gotten his laughter under control. The whole squad had seen her, waiting more or less patiently behind the glass, before Burter dismissed them. “Six tits, man, wowza!”

                “Nah,” Burter shrugged, “she was pretty rough.”

                “Rough? Since when do you care? Or what, you got a sweetheart somewhere you’re saving yourself for?” Jeice teased, batting his eyelashes and making kissy-lips as Burter, who flushed and snapped “NO!” so quickly that the little red warrior’s eyes popped open with surprise.

                “Oh man, you do!” he crowed, jabbing his captain with one well-manicured finger.

                “I don’t,” Burter ground out, but he could no longer look his comrade straight in the face; it was a dead giveaway.

                “Who is it, someone I know? Oh, that sexy green-skinned girl who does our laundry on base? I’ve seen her eyeing you up. Or maybe that one guy from Armin Squad that you went out with?”

                “Wrong and wrong,” Burter said, “because there’s no one.”

                “Don’t believe you, not for a second.”

                “Okay fine, whatever,” Burter rolled his eyes and leaned in toward his half-drunk pseudo friend and whispered, “it’s Zarbon.”

                “PFFT!” Jeice snorted, spraying his mouthful of alkabrew right into Burter’s face. “Oh man, good one,” he laughed, then caught sight of what he’d done. He snagged a fistful of napkins from a dispenser on the bar top and dabbed ineffectually at Burter’s dripping chin. “Whoops! Sorry boss-man. But what’d you expect, telling a right zinger like that one, me with a mouthful of booze?”

.

.

                “Oh man, that was awkward,” Krillin let out a huge sigh of relief, glad to be free of the little namekian conference. He’d made excuses for himself and Eighteen amidst the squabbling and they’d snuck out, leaving Dende to the mess he’d made. Krillin thought he might have felt worse about it if he hadn’t been so impressed by the young sage’s new attitude.

                “Awkward...” Eighteen repeated in that funny way she had, which Krillin was coming to understand meant she was unfamiliar with something. “I do not comprehend. Explain,” she demanded, though without the rudeness that might accompany someone else’s saying the exact same thing.

                “Awkward is...it’s like _uncomfortable_ ,” Krillin frowned as he thought, his eyebrows drawing together and down in concentration. He took Eighteen’s questions very seriously and always tried to educate her to the very best of his abilities. “It’s like when you don’t know what to say or do, or if you say or do the wrong thing,” he added, “but I’m not sure I’m explaining it all that well.”

                “That is me,” Eighteen said, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Krillin took a few more steps before he realized that she was no longer moving with him and, startled, he turned to see what the problem was. She was standing still, her head cocked to the side and eyes fixed on some point in the distance as though suddenly turned to stone. “I am awkward,” she said, and her tone implied both a sense of confusion and certainty, as though she had experienced some life-changing epiphany. “I am awkward,” she repeated, this time fixing her eyes on Krillin’s face.

                “What?” he sputtered, fearing that he’d upset her, “You’re not!”

                “I am,” Eighteen said firmly, and Krillin realized he had no need to worry. Naturally, she would not understand the word’s negative associations and so would be unable, for the time being, to attribute them to herself. “I understand the word _uncomfortable_ and the feeling of discomfort. I feel it often,” she admitted, surprising him. He’d never thought of Eighteen as anything but completely confident in herself, for how would it occur to her to be otherwise? She’d never known ridicule or ostracism, only complete inclusion by the people around her. “I did not, when I was born. The more I exist, the more I realize how much there is to understand about the universe. Sixteen is awkward but he does not know it, cannot comprehend it. Seventeen and I, however, are aware of ourselves as social beings.”

                “Eighteen...” Krillin trailed off, not sure what to say. He settled for reaching out and taking her hand in his own again and giving it a squeeze. Her gaze fixed on their joined fingers and she frowned though not, Krillin hoped, due to distaste.

                “I like it when you hold my hand,” she said after a moment and Krillin’s heart lurched into his throat and sat there, beating for all it was worth. “I do not know why.”

                “I...I like holding your hand, Eighteen,” he replied quietly. He wondered if it was terribly indecent to think about all the other things she might enjoy doing with him and blushed madly. She was right; she _was_ awkward. A strange combination of ignorance and knowledge, of worldliness and innocence. Chronologically she was an infant, but physically a grown woman, and mentally somewhere in between. Krillin wasn’t quite sure how to deal with all of that. He wanted her with a desperation that bordered on frightening, and yet at the same time he worried that, should things develop between them, he might be taking advantage of her naiveté. It was sort of a no-win situation.

                Krillin found himself wanting to say something more, but he wasn’t sure what. If he’d met her on Earth and she’d been a normal woman, he would have put his best moves on her, taken her dancing, complimented her every feature, word, and action. He’d have bowled her over with his charm, he was certain. Here though, and with her the way she was, he was pretty far out of his element and his usual confidence was like dust under her heels.

                “I must go and speak to my brother,” Eighteen said, abruptly disengaging her cool fingers from his clammy ones. The sudden feeling of air on his palm stung and he clenched his fist against it as he watched her walk away. Always so sudden, ever abrupt. He tried to pretend the conversation had stopped right before his embarrassing confession.

                Again, he reminded himself that this was likely not a rebuttal, but simply Eighteen’s way. She had no concept of the games that men and women throughout the universe played, using each other’s hearts as pieces on the board. The desire to humiliate did not exist within her brain as he knew it, nor would it even occur to her how such a declaration could be mortifying. He could rest easy, knowing it wasn’t all some plot to make him feel like a fool...

                Or he should have been able to, at least. The insecurity switch was something he couldn’t exactly just turn off. Add that to the fact that no woman had ever gotten under his skin with quite the effectiveness that Eighteen seemed to display, and he was one nervous little man. It might have been easier if he knew why, too. She was pretty well the opposite of his normal type when it came to personality, but the attraction was far from purely physical.

                “Damn it,” Krillin sighed, running a damp palm over his shining scalp. He was standing alone in the hall; she’d left with hardly a word and him without so much as a _see ya later_. He’d always prided himself on the fact that if he couldn’t offer a woman good looks and average height, he was at least the most well-mannered, charming man they could ever hope to meet. With Eighteen, he felt like he was slacking on all fronts.

                Grimly, he wondered if Mrs. Briefs’ flowers were in decent bloom, and if Eighteen would even understand the gesture behind a hand-picked bouquet.

.

.

                Zarbon sat alone in Mrs. Briefs’ conservatory. He’d seen better but it was actually quite impressive, given the short amount of time it had been in existence. There was definitely still work to be done, spots to be filled and seedlings to be loved up into full grown trees, but there was a sense of peace and tranquility there that he desperately needed. He’d only just come out of the regeneration tank after his fight with Vegeta; his hair was actually still damp and he reeked of antiseptic.

                The place was blessedly free nameks, still ensconced in their meeting as they were. Zarbon was unsettled enough, and he did not need to feel their judging eyes on him. He’d made surprising headway with the boy, Dende, but the adults were still wary of him. The only one who didn’t look at him with the memory of destruction in his eyes was Piccolo, the weird one who was not actually part of their group.

                Zarbon sighed and tried to put the nameks out of his mind. His purpose in coming into the conservatory had been to try and put _everything_ out of his mind, but it wasn’t working so well. He was thoroughly unsettled and not sure what to do about it, not even sure if it was even worth getting so frazzled over.

                Zarbon didn’t dream often. He didn’t know if it was a characteristic of his people or if the years of psychological torture with Frieza had simply left him too mentally exhausted for dreams. Sleep was an escape from the strains of the day; five to eight blissfully blank hours in which to recharge his mental batteries, to fortify the barriers in his mind. Dreams had become an intrusive thing, a nuisance. When he had them, they were mostly bad, recalling to him the awful things he’d done, the awful things he’d had done to him.

                He’d dreamed while in the regeneration tank, and what he recalled of it made his newly healed body ache all over again. Sex dreams were exceedingly abnormal for him. Sex dreams featuring Burter...pretty well unheard of.

                Zarbon ran a hand over his tired face, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to dull the mild headache that had sprung up. How many months had it been since his escape? How long since that stupid, impulsive kiss? Rationally, when he thought of Burter’s scaly, hairless body, his lumpy face and that weird, bony plating atop his head, it was not something he thought of as attractive. Maybe Burter was handsome by the standards of his own people – he did have a certain strength and evenness of feature – but to Zarbon...well, Zarbon had never looked twice, suffice to say.

                So why now? Because Burter had helped him? Because he’d shown some semblance of affection where Zarbon was used to seeing only physical desire? Because he was lonely and there was no tail to be had on this godforsaken ship?

                It was odd that he should be so preoccupied with thoughts of Burter while the knowledge of Vegeta’s transformation was so fresh in his mind. A few decks below him, there was someone with the potential to finally kill Frieza...and Zarbon was busy thinking about cock.

                “It was a stupid dream,” he said aloud to himself. “Not real.” But his face felt hot and there was a hard knot of desire in his stomach where his hatred normally lived. He didn’t know what to do and for the first time since departing on Red Station, he actually wished that Orly was with him. The blonde was the closest thing he’d had to a friend in at least a decade; he’d left that sort of thing behind the moment he caught Frieza’s eye. Then again, Zarbon doubted that Orly would want to hear the details of this highly unlikely, pseudo-crush on another man.

                From his hiding spot behind a hedge, Zarbon heard the whoosh of the conservatory door sliding open. There was a rush of dry, cool air, so different from the humidity that characterized this little haven. He heard the familiar click-clack of heels across the floor and peeked through the dense foliage of his little hiding place to see Mrs. Briefs, headed his way.

                “Don’t mind me, dear, just grabbing a handful of basil!” she tittered as she rounded the corner and bent to pluck a few leaves from a nearby pot. “Well, it smells like basil, at least,” she said, crushing one between her fingers and then holding it out to him. Dutifully, he sniffed. He didn’t know what basil was, but whatever she had in her hand smelled pretty good, that was for sure.

                “Is it for cooking?” he asked politely, and she nodded.

                “Now, what are you doing all by yourself here, handsome?” Mrs. Briefs stuffed the leaves in the pocket of her frilly, pink-striped apron and put her hands on her hips. She didn’t give him a chance to answer, just leaned in so that her face was about two inches from his. “You’re upset about something, hmm?” She paused, cocked her head and stared at him for a few minutes. Zarbon didn’t say anything, just endured her scrutiny. “Is it your hair?”

                “M...my hair?” Zarbon squawked, his hands reaching up to run through the deep green strands in panic. “What’s wrong with it?”

                “Oh, just a few split ends, that’s all.” She dug around in her pocket for a capsule, hit the button and tossed it. A bang and a puff of smoke revealed a large cosmetics case in its place. Zarbon shook his head and watched as she crouched down and began digging through her treasure trove of beauty supplies; he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the capsule technology that seemed so prevalent on this ship. Gods, if Frieza ever got a hold of it...he didn’t want to think about how much it could benefit the empire. “Here, let me fix it up for you,” she surfaced with a pair of shears, “and you can tell Mom all about what’s on your mind.” She dragged him over to one of the garden benches and dug out Seventeen’s garishly bejewelled smock from the tool cabinet to serve as a cape. “I went to beauty school before I got married, you know,” she chattered as she ran her fingers through his hair, examining its condition. “Of course they don’t call it that nowadays and if Bulma heard me she’d be going on about the women’s lib! But anyway, that’s where I met my husband! He used to come in to have his hair cut, and you know it’s so funny, I thought he was maybe poor because they always had a discount rate in those days to get your hair done by a student. Turns out the silly man was a multimillionaire, and just too distracted to realize he wasn’t going into a real barber shop! How funny is that, hmm?”

                It was the last thing in the world he’d expected to be doing that day, but the thought of refusing her hardly crossed his mind. Was this how the saiyans had been tamed? Red Station was a hub of danger and intrigue, and yet it was peaceful...domestic in a way that none of them were used to. It was so easy to forget that they were hurtling through space in a desperate bid to escape the most powerful creature this side of the universe.

                The strangest thing, however, was that Zarbon found himself talking. He winced every time he heard the snick-snack of the scissors through his hair, but her chatter was infectious and when she bluntly asked him outright if he was having heart troubles, he said he was.

                “It’s...well, a man,” he admitted. “He and I...well, we weren’t really...”

                “Oh no, unrequited love?” Mrs. Briefs gasped and tutted like a mother hen. “Well, I don’t see how that is. You’re so beautiful, who wouldn’t love you?” She stroked his hair and patted his shoulder before returning to her work.

                “It’s not like that. See, I wasn’t aware of his feelings until it was much too late. I was in prison and he was...well, he’s in Frieza’s forces.”

                “Oh, just like a romance novel! Like Romeo and Juliet! How romantic!”

                Zarbon couldn’t help the grimace that spread across his face, but luckily Mrs. Briefs was behind him still, and not able to see it. He let her think what she wanted to, rather than giving her the sordid details. “He helped me escape and then he stayed behind, and it’s only now that I’m far away that I’m beginning to wonder if there might have been something there, between us. But perhaps I’m just lonely and...well...” he paused, feeling stupid. This sort of thing was completely foreign territory.

                “Well?” Mrs. Briefs prodded him in the back. “What?”

                “I have a history of getting involved with the wrong man,” Zarbon finished, lamely. _Wrong man_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

                “Zarbon, my dear boy.” Mrs. Briefs dropped her scissors next to Zarbon and tottered around the bench to stand in front of him. She bent and reached out to cup his cheeks in her hands. “You can’t live your life in fear of what is behind you! You have to reach out and grab every opportunity! Take the bull by the china shop! Or...” she paused, confused, “or by the balls!” She briefly released his face and mimed horns above her head. “You can’t let this die! What if he’s your one, true love!”

                Zarbon almost laughed out loud at that, recalling Burter’s request of a pity fuck, and wondering if ‘love’ could even come to play between men so damaged by life. He restrained himself, however, and if he toned down the intensity, her idea really wasn’t so bad. “You’re right,” he said, “I should give it a try. I just don’t know how.”

                “Go talk to my daughter,” Mrs. Briefs clapped her hands twice and then clasped them together between her chin. She had stars in her eyes. “Bulma will help you contact him, I’m sure she knows how!”

                “I...maybe not yet. I’ll think about it.” Zarbon promised his disappointed new friend, but it could only last so long. She brightened, grabbed her scissors from the bench, and made a quick few adjustments to the front of Zarbon’s hair.

                “You’re going to love it!” She squealed, moving off to rummage again in her cosmetics case. She returned shortly with a mirror, which she held up in front of him. “Ta da!”

                Layers. They framed his face, tickled his jawbone, and gave his hair dimension and volume he’d never known before. “It’s,” he fingered the longest part, a fringe that sat just so on his shoulders, “Wow.”

                “Oh, I knew you’d love it!” Mrs. Briefs reached behind Zarbon’s head with her scissors and snipped a big, red bloom from the hedge. “But you can’t forget the final touch!” She winked and tucked it behind his ear, then packed up all her things and encapsulated them once more. She looked at her watch and realized she’d been gone for forty-five minutes. “Oh dear! The roast!”

                Zarbon watched her scuttle away with her pocket full of herbs, and found himself smiling as she disappeared out the door with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. She was certainly something.

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Remember the 90s? Remember Jennifer Anniston’s “The Rachel” haircut? I think that’s what Mrs. Briefs just gave Zarbon. I would draw it for you if I could.


	46. Chapter 46

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:  I’m so sorry for the delay. It was long to begin with, and then Dec.27th I got up, ready to do one last re-read and edit before posting...only to find that my file had become corrupted and, naturally, this was the only one out of 46 chapters without a backup copy or a previous version that could be restored. Two hours of frustrated attempts later, it remained unsalvageable so I had to re-start from scratch. Blarg.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Burter woke up, and sincerely wished that he had not. Harbour Colony’s bright, fake sunlight pierced his still-closed eyelids, turning his world a violent shade of red. Somewhere in the distance a faucet dripped, every plink of water against the porcelain rebounding around in his skull like a cannonball. His head was pounding, and his mouth tasted as though something had curled up in his throat and died a grizzly death.

                All this before he’d even opened his eyes.

                Wincing as his lids came apart, eyelashes sticking together with the remnants of crusty sleep, he tried to recall just how much alcohol he’d consumed the night before. There was a woman next to him, perhaps she’d know. Or the woman beside her, he thought, craning his neck to look at the other occupants of the bed, or maybe Jeice, snoring away on the far side.

                Burter sat up, suppressing a groan as gravity caught up with his aching brain, and tried to recall exactly what he’d done last night. He had no recollection of meeting the two women between himself and Jeice, had no idea if they’d been picked up or paid for. Fuzzy remembrances were all that came to mind; skin against skin, his mouth on someone else’s, yet another around his cock. He spared a glace for his three sleeping bedmates and wondered who he’d done what with. He clutched his head as a fresh wave of pain lanced through it, and stopped trying to think.

                First order of business: find pants.

                He stood carefully, both to ensure his own steadiness and to avoid waking up the woman beside him, and spied his pants carelessly crumpled in one corner. “Boss, go back to sleep,” Jeice’s voice grumbled drowsily from the bed, just as Burter was hiking things up over his bum. He turned around to see his little teammate frowning up at the world, though his eyes were still closed. From this height and vantage point, Burter had an excellent view of Jeice’s spread-eagled body, limp red dick plastered to one thigh. He’d seen it a million times in the locker rooms, in the showers, in sex clubs, but to his knowledge he’d never had intimate contact with it before. Still didn’t know, actually.

                Bending down, Burter scooped up Jeice’s own pants and lobbed them in a perfect arc, so that they landed on the man’s face. “Get up,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We’re going.”

                “Fine, fine,” Jeice muttered, wriggling into his pants without even getting off the bed. With his companion half dressed, at least, Burter began to feel better. Jeice finally rolled out of the bed and together, they hunted out the remaining items of their respective wardrobes, before sneaking quietly out into the larger apartment. “Did we pick them up,” Jeice asked, “or were they hookers?”

                Burter groaned and slumped down onto the floor to pull on his boots. “No idea,” he replied, and watched Jeice dig a small handful of credits out from his pocket.

                “Just in case,” the red warrior grinned and dumped them on the counter. “I’m guessing pick up though. Hookers’d have made us pay for a hotel room rather ‘n bringing us back to their place, right?”

                “Probably,” Burter shrugged his shoulders and heaved himself off the floor. He was envious of Jeice’s easy attitude, but at the same time it helped him feel a little less awkward. Either they hadn’t touched each other, or Jeice didn’t care that they had. “So...how much did I drink last night?”

                “Dunno, sir,” Jeice shrugged, running a hand through his tangled white hair. “I lost count somewhere around the fifth shot we did, and that was on top of a few rounds of alkabrew,” he broke off, with a muttered oath as his hand caught in a snarl of something, and Burder watched him gently ease the strands free of each other, and of the flaking substance, camouflaged in hair of the same colour. Burter swallowed, thickly.

                “Is that...” he paused, “is that what I think it is?” He could feel the heat rising beneath his scaled cheeks as the unmistakable scent of stale semen wafted in the air.

                “Well yes sir, it is,” Jeice said, candidly. He met his captain’s eyes only briefly, shrugging his shoulders before he went back to picking at the mess. “But don’t be embarrassed, aye? I’m pretty sure I asked you to.”

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                “So what exactly am I looking at?” Bulma asked, cocking her head to the side as she studied the graph on her computer screen. Sixteen was behind her, crouched down so that he towered only minimally over her. She’d offered him a seat upon his arrival in her lab, but he’d declined. Comfort didn’t seem to factor much in Sixteen’s decision.

                “These are the results from the most recent electrocardiogram tests.” He reached out and tapped her computer screen ever so delicately for a man whose palm spanned nearly her whole head. “Vegeta, Radditz, Nappa,” he said, touching each line in turn, and then, on the most erratic line, “Goku.”

                Bulma was not a medical doctor; her area of interest had always been mechanics. Physics and chemistry were her strengths and while she was not quite up to snuff with biology, she was certainly no slouch. “So basically, what we’re seeing is completely abnormal behaviour in terms of the electrical signals running through his heart, yes?” Sixteen nodded.

                “The problem lies in determining if this abnormality is the cause of his problems, or if it is caused by them.”

                “Not to mention what to do about it,” Bulma sighed, squinting at the violent up and down of Goku’s orange line as though it might offer some clue. “This thing, the wasting, Nappa said that organ strain and damage is common in adult sufferers. The question is, why hasn’t the process started to reverse itself with proper nutrition and exercise, like he said it would? We’ve been taking the readings for some time now and Goku’s are always completely out of whack, even at rest.” Bulma huffed in frustration and they both sat, staring at the computer screen for a long time.

                “I fear that there might be permanent damage,” Sixteen said, breaking the silence. Bulma winced, hearing him voice her exact thoughts.

                “We’ll just have to keep running tests, keep a close watch on him, and pray that whatever information Tarble has, there’s something that might be able to help us.” Despite the forced cheer of her words, Bulma did not stop staring at the screen, her mind running through the possibilities as though she were looking at the electrical map of one of her inventions. The human body ran on electrical currents, held by neurons instead of wires, and she couldn’t help but feel as though there might be some connection that she just wasn’t seeing.

                “I am sorry that I cannot provide more information at this time,” Sixteen said, sounding as regretful as he possibly could. “Goku is...a good man.”

                Bulma winced, guilt flushing through her at the awkward look that passed over the android’s features. He was working so hard to save the life of the closest thing to a rival he would ever have, and no one had ever stopped to consider his feelings. “You are a good friend, Sixteen,” she said, turning in her chair to take his hand, squeezing it between both of her own.

                “Thank you, Bulma. You are my very good friend, and I am honoured to be considered the same.” She released him and he stood, inclining his head in a very slight bow. “I only wish I was able to do more in the immediate present.”

                “I know, the waiting makes me antsy too. But what else can we do?”

                “You are right, as you usually are.” Sixteen smiled and turned to take his leave. “Though I think I will return to the infirmary to puzzle further over this conundrum.”

                Bulma watching him go, his broad back looking clunky in relation to the thin aisles between shelves and piles of equipment, though he moved with a grace and ease contrary to his size. She was surprised, then, to see a slender form coming through the stacks just after Sixteen’s bulky one disappeared.

                “Zarbon!” Bulma sputtered, sitting up in her chair and self consciously tightening her scraggly ponytail.

                “I hope I am not intruding...?” He trailed off in a half-question, eyeing the mess of papers and parts that were scattered on the desk.

                “No, no, please sit,” she gestured to the chair across from her desk, belatedly realizing that there was a stack of files atop it. Perhaps that’s why Sixteen had refused her offer of a seat. “You can just put those...uh, wherever. On the floor’s fine.” She cast about for a clear spot on the desk, and failed to find one. Without comment, Zarbon did as he was told and sat down with a grace that would make any finishing school mistress proud. Bulma, for her part, tried to sit up a little straighter and smoothed down her rumpled coveralls, to the best of her ability. Really, they would need a good wash and a trip under her mother’s iron to be presentable. Actually, Bulma caught sight of herself in the reflection of her computer screen as it blacked into standby, and realized that she could use a good wash, herself. “Um, what can I do for you?”

                “I am told you are the resident communications expert.” Zarbon got straight to the point; she had to admire him for that.

                “I am,” she replied warily. She hadn’t been alone much with Zarbon, and it wasn’t that she was afraid of him, but rather that he was still a bit of an unknown quantity. That, and she wasn’t used to feeling like the ugly one in a conversation. “Your hair looks nice,” she said offhand, and he reached up nervously to touch it.

                “Your mother’s touch,” he said. “She also told me to come see you. I,” he paused shyly and Bulma was surprised to see it. So far Zarbon had shown her nothing but utter and complete confidence in himself, though looking closer she could see the clues of a deep insecurity. “I need to contact someone. In Frieza’s army.”

                She was boggled, he could see it on her face. It took her some time to compose herself, but eventually she did it. Bulma was nothing if not used to being shocked. “I don’t know that I can promise that,” she said, hesitantly. She wasn’t about to trust him with full access to the communications systems, but she was terribly curious, she couldn’t deny it. The way he spoke of his time at Frieza’s side, it didn’t seem like he’d made any dear friends, and especially not one he might be so eager to contact.

                “I know, but the question had to be asked.” Bulma watched his eyes dart downward and to her surprise, the beginnings of a blush spread across the bridge of his nose. In a second, her resolve began to weaken; she knew the signs. _Love interest_.

                “You really get around, don’t you?” Bulma blurted, thinking of the awkward goodbye he’d shared with Orly, and guessing quite correctly that there’d been something between them.

                “It’s not...well...I...” Zarbon stumbled over his words; the women of this ship were strangely perceptive and unbearably forward; he was used to having his personal boundaries respected, and to intimidating those around him into leaving him alone. Oddly enough to Zarbon, when he finally collected himself enough to meet Bulma’s eye again, he could tell that something in her bearing had changed. He’d no way of knowing that the hint of romance in his situation was probably the only thing that could have convinced Bulma to let him send his message.

                “Who is it?” she asked, trying to disguise her eagerness. In this, she was like her mother. Briefs women were suckers for romance, and born matchmakers.

                Zarbon’s reply was so quiet and mumbled that Bulma barely heard it.

                “BURTER?” she practically shrieked in surprise, eyes wide and mouth open in disbelief. “But he’s so...” she trailed off awkwardly.

                “Ugly?” Zarbon finished her sentence for her. “I know.” He swiped a hand across his face, taking a moment to press his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. His flush had deepened and spread now from cheekbone to cheekbone. “Believe me, I know. I don’t get it either. He broke me out of Frieza’s prisons, believe it or not, and I find myself feeling...something more than gratitude.” He coughed, clearing his throat in an attempt to diffuse his discomfort. He could not meet Bulma’s eyes.

                “I’m imagining this,” Bulma tapped her head and cocked it to the side, “and I’m not sure what to think.”

                Zarbon swore in another language, Bulma wasn’t sure which one, and glared at her. “Do you treat the monkey prince like this? If so, your cunt must be made of gold, else I can’t see how you’d have survived this long.”

                “Hey,” Bulma snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. She was used to insults, living on a ship full of saiyans, but the really crass ones were normally not directed at her. “Goodness knows I have a gutter-mouth to compete with the best of them, but you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” She shook a finger at him but continued quickly, sensing that he might not get the reference. “Anyway, you need me, buddy. And you’re lucky because despite your bad judgement and inability to give me the respect I deserve, I think I’m starting to like you.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, watching her erstwhile companion gape openly in shock. “So what is it exactly that you want to say?”

                “A brief thank-you, nothing more,” Zarbon said, trying to scrabble together what remnants of his dignity he could. There wasn’t much, not after his barb had rolled so smoothly off her back.

                “I think we can work something out,” Bulma sighed, “though I should probably know better. It’s got to be short and it’s got to appear completely innocent, like someone’s punched in a wrong number, or something. I’ll make sure it can’t get traced back to us, but you don’t want to get him in shit, should someone else happen to read it.”

                “I understand.”

                “Good. Go think about it, what you want to say, quickly before I change my mind about helping you. Come back to me when you’ve got an idea of some way to code it so he’ll understand.”

                “I am in your debt.” Zarbon stood and inclined his head ever so slightly, a small bowing gesture. Bulma couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not, so she simply shrugged and bid him goodbye. She watched him for a few seconds before turning back to her desk, suddenly at a loss for what she’d been working on earlier. She wondered if she should be more rankled by his insult, ashamedly admitting to herself that if he’d been less devastatingly handsome, she’d probably have taken more offense.

                That wasn’t entirely true, she thought. It wasn’t as though she’d fall at the feet of any handsome man, no matter how badly he treated her; she had more pride than that. It was moreso that she understood Zarbon’s predicament. He was essentially alone, or believed himself to be, at least. Surrounded by strangers and former enemies, he seemed constantly on edge. Bulma wondered how long it had been since he’d known kindness, or had someone he could call a friend. She felt a sudden surge of guilt; aside from training, Zarbon had little contact with his shipmates, and getting beaten up day by day was not the way to make anyone feel particularly welcome.

                With a sigh, Bulma added “make friends with Zarbon” to the ever-growing list of tasks she kept in her head.

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                Zarbon walked through the stacks feeling a curious mixture of relief and apprehension. He was nervous about contacting Burter, and entirely unsure what he could possibly say that wouldn’t give the whole thing away, but he felt a bit better for having spoken to Bulma about it. It was good to know that once he’d collected his thoughts, she would be there and willing to help him. He really wasn’t used to being able to rely on other people like that and was surprised to find how light it made him feel.

                Zarbon’s sense of peace and goodwill lasted all of about one minute, for the second the lab door slid shut behind him, a white-gloved hand wrapped around his neck. “Vegegghhhck,” he choked, gasping for air as he was slammed against the wall.

                “What were you doing in there?” Vegeta snarled. He was forced to loosen his hold when Zarbon could only gurgle in response.

                “What the _fuck_!” Zarbon tried to slap Vegeta’s hand away, but he was unable to. The saiyan growled and jerked his arm, pulling the other man’s head forward before slamming it back against the steel panelling. His grip tightened and Zarbon’s fingers scrabbled against Vegeta’s arm, nails digging in as deeply as they could.

                “Must I repeat myself?” Vegeta asked, mindless of the gouges in his flesh, or the blood dripping slowly down his arm. He loosened his own grip when he felt Zarbon’s fingers begin to weaken, and pulled completely away, leaving the green man to fall, gasping, to the floor.

                “You’re fucking crazy,” Zarbon wheezed out, clutching his throat protectively with one hand.

                “You have no idea.” Vegeta squatted down so that he was eye level with the curled up Zarbon. He’d felt the man’s ki with Bulma’s, felt the up and down of her energy, and had driven himself half mad, imagining what might be going on between them. “If you fuck with her, I _will_ kill you. Do you understand me?”

                “I didn’t do anything,” Zarbon insisted, and his voice came out normally this time, though his vocal cords ached with every syllable. Before Vegeta could respond, the door beside them whooshed open and there was Bulma, looking horrified.

                “Vegeta!” she shrieked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She’d heard the bang of Zarbon’s head against her wall, though she hadn’t known it as such at the time, and had come to investigate. Her sneakers slid as she stepped in a small puddle of blood, but she caught herself, reaching out a hand to the wall. Slowly, Vegeta stood and stepped back. Her glare followed him but quickly returned to Zarbon’s neck, where his bloody fingers were doing little to hide the ugly, mottled bruise that was beginning to spread there. “Zarbon, go to the medical bay. Sixteen should be there,” Bulma said, gently patting Zarbon’s shoulder. He flinched at her touch, eyes darting to Vegeta, and picked himself up off the floor. She felt guilty, knowing that he’d just come out of a regeneration tank that morning, and the injury was not severe enough to warrant a return. Zarbon would just have to deal with it. “He might have something to soothe that. And please come back and speak to me,” she glared at Vegeta while she said this, before directing a smile back at Zarbon, “when you’ve thought more about what we discussed.”

                “Yes...thank you.” Zarbon inclined his head in a brief bow, turned, and was away as fast as he could manage without taking flight. So much for making friends.

                Wordlessly, Bulma turned and stalked back into her lab, ponytail streaming behind her. Vegeta was close on her heels as she headed for the back, where the lab gave way to a small corner of spartan living space that Dr. Gero had set up, for when he’d been too busy or hermetic to leave. There was a sink, a microwave, and a shower that was barely more than a pipe sticking out of the wall, over a drained basin set into the floor. Bulma had put up a curtain and was in the habit of keeping nice toiletries on hand, but it was still pretty dreary. At least the old man had had the decency to put the toilet it its own little cubicle.

                From the cupboard beneath the sink, Bulma yanked out her first aid box and plonked it on the counter. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she finally spoke, as she doused a cotton pad with peroxide. She grabbed Vegeta’s arm and scrubbed vigorously at his wounds.

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the prince responded, not even flinching at her unnecessarily rough doctoring. Bulma pressed her lips so tightly shut that they began to go white at the edges, and took a deep breath in through her nose as she threw away the soaked cotton pad and reached for a length of fabric bandage and began to wind it around his arm.

                “You are really something else, you know that? Did he say something to you? Did he imply something?” The bandage slipped and she cursed. “All he did was come in here to ask me a favour. Nothing happened and nothing will happen. I won’t have you beating up someone simply because he comes to talk to me. Almost every single man on this ship is friendly with me, and you don’t have a problem with any of them.”

                “Everyone else on the ship is bound in trust to either you or I,” Vegeta growled. “It’s not about the fact that he is male and you are female. If I ever found the two of you in bed, believe me, he’d not be the only one to die.” Vegeta narrowed his eyes at her and she pretended not to notice as she pinned the bandage and snipped the excess away. “The saiyans are mine, the earthlings are yours, and the Nameks would not lift a finger against anyone. Zarbon is the only free agent aboard this ship, and he needs to learn his place.” Bulma watched as Vegeta flexed his arm, testing the quality of her repairs. They both knew he didn’t need it, but Vegeta was smart enough to know that the process had allowed Bulma to distract herself from her anger.

                “Pissing him off isn’t going to make him loyal to you.”

                “Pah, Zarbon will never be loyal to me,” Vegeta said. “And I will never be able to trust him in the way that I would trust in mine. For now, his fear of me will keep him in line and that is enough.” He reached for her with his good arm, pulling her against him, and she rested her head against his chest. He was hard – he always was, after a battle – and she could feel his hand dipping low on her back. “I do not want you near him.”

                At this, Bulma grew stiff herself, and pushed her way out of his grasp. “What do you think is going to happen right now?” she asked, crossing her arms and glaring at him from the relative safety of a few feet away. “You’ve scared away the rival, and now you’re going to come in here, rub up all over me and solidify your claim? I don’t think so. I’m not your property and you can’t dictate who I will and will not spend my time with.”

                Vegeta grumbled low in his throat and reached for her again, but she slapped his hand away and stepped further back. “I don’t get off on blood and violence like you do,” Bulma snapped, despite the response that had risen up at his touch, and the sight of him straining against his shorts. Had she not just witnessed the aftermath of his attack on poor Zarbon, she’d have been halfway to undressed. As it was, this was one of those uncomfortable moments where she was forced to look at reality and realize once more that she was in love with a man who was capable of great evil.

                “Bulma,” Vegeta growled, half cajoling, half threatening, and Bulma shook her head.

                “Take care of it yourself,” she said, and stalked off to take her frustrations out on some of her latest experiments.

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.

                Piccolo frowned to himself, refusing to open his eyes in the hopes that his lost meditative state might just be recaptured. He usually didn’t have a problem ignoring the world around him, but for some reason the namekian conference going on just on the other side of the bushes was proving a great distraction.

                He suspected it was the part of him that was Kami, who lay at fault. Namek had been his home once, millennia ago, and there was still a thread of kinship that tied him to the strangers on the other side of the hedge. The part of him that was Piccolo felt only irritation at the interruption, having considered himself completely devoid of kinship ties for his entire life.

                The conglomerate that still bore the name “Piccolo” was unsure how to feel, especially when he opened his eyes at the sound of soft footsteps, to see the youngest namek standing before him.

                “What do you want?” Piccolo grumbled, watching the boy swallow nervously. It had been several thousand years since any part of him had lived on Namek, but he thought that this child looked absurdly young to hold such responsibility. There were lines of strain around his mouth and dark smudges beneath his eyes.

                “Well, um, sir...Mr. Piccolo? May I call you that?” Dende had heard Gohan refer to him as such, and thought it seemed most polite. A grunt from the elder namek assured him it was fine. “I was wondering...that is,” he stuttered, nervously. “Bulma told me you used to be a god. Part of you, at least,” he added, though it was clear by his tone that he was not quite sure if he had it right.

                “Yes,” Piccolo said, and didn’t offer any more.

                “Oh. Well,” Dende was at a loss for words. Gohan’s enthusiasm regarding Piccolo had led Dende to believe that this would be much easier. He trained his eyes on the ground. “What was it like?”

                “Hard,” Piccolo said, and Dende’s gaze shot up. Piccolo looked the same, but there was something different in the tone of his voice, as though someone else had spoken. “Rewarding,” said the part of him that had been Kami, and Dende was transfixed. “I am everyday grieved that I could not to more for my beloved Earth, but the experience of it is not one I would trade for anything.”

                “How?”

                “How, what?” Piccolo snarled, shaking his head. Dende jerked back, and the moment was lost. “Interfering old man,” the elder namek bared his teeth at the child, blaming him for the temporary lapse. “Go and leave me, boy.”

                To his credit, Dende stood his ground. “You should listen to him, whoever he is.”

                “What business is it of yours?”

                “It is never wise to deny a part of yourself,” Dende insisted, unaware that his words made the other namek grind his teeth in irritation. “I carry my mentor inside of me; I would do almost anything if only he would speak to me in words.”

                “Kami was _not_ my mentor,” Piccolo grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring off to the side. A thoroughly unexpected sense of guilt rose up in his gullet, and he found that he could not meet the child’s eyes. Kami had given up much, perhaps more than Piccolo had, in their joining.

                When he’d agreed to the merging, he’d not expected Kami’s presence in his head to be so _intrusive_. He’d known, of course, that his mind would change, but he’d expected a more complete sense of melding than what had happened. Instead, it seemed that most of what came out was Piccolo, while Kami seemed to exist somewhere in the back of his skull, almost a separate entity but not quite. Day to day, Piccolo was entirely in control of himself, and perhaps kinder for the merging, but essentially the same man as he’d been that fateful day on Earth’s lookout tower, before Goku’s arrival. Every so often, however, something would trigger the old sage to come strongly forward and Piccolo would find the presence in his mind overpowering.

                Piccolo stared at Dende, wondering if the remnants of Guru’s knowledge might provide him some clue. The child was speaking, but he had no use for what was being said. Other questions ran through his mind. Had something gone wrong with the fusion? If this was how it was meant to be, Piccolo felt he’d been drastically misled. He wondered if they would separate again once dead, potentially to meet in the afterlife. He had a serious bone to pick with the old man.

                “Do you know about the techniques of splitting oneself, or merging with another?” Piccolo asked, interrupting Dende mid-sentence.

                “No...not much, at least,” Dende said, startled by Piccolo’s abrupt interruption. Curiously, he took a step forward. “Why?”

                “Many thousands of years ago, a man by the name of Piccolo left the planet Namek,” Piccolo heaved a sigh as the boy came closer, daring to sit down like a child for story time. The mere fact that he continued speaking made him wonder if Kami’s influence was more deeply ingrained than he even realized. “He came to Earth, then very young, and decided to become its guardian, its god. Such powers as determine those things tested him, and found him worthy but for a small darkness in his heart. It is the nature of all men to have a balance of both, but gods must be one or the other. So Piccolo ripped the evil from himself and was split into two men, Kami and the Demon King, Piccolo Daimyo.” Piccolo could feel Kami’s presence surging to the fore of his mind again, but did not fight it. This was the old man’s memory, after all.

“Kami became Earth’s guardian, and Piccolo its most destructive influence. Millenia passed and neither could do anything about the other, for they were two halves of the same whole, and their lives bound together. Kami lived and Piccolo Daimyo died, but not before spitting out an egg containing a clone of himself, a son to carry on with the other half of Kami’s soul. This Piccolo grew and eventually was persuaded to re-merge with Kami, in hopes of saving the Earth, or at least themselves. I am that merger.”

“Why the questions? You seem to know much about it, yourself.” Dende looked upon the man before him with a new sense of awe and wonder. All namekian children were taught that such things were possible, but even in Guru’s knowledge, the instances were rare.

Piccolo did not answer, just sat there scowling, and Dende did not press him. For his part, Piccolo was reluctant to speak of this failure, this potential weakness in his construction. He wondered whether things would have turned out differently, had he not been a clone of his father, but the original man himself. Had something essential been lost in procreation? He’d had no mother to interfere in his genes, but even having not known the old man, he had a feeling they were not quite the same. Would his father even have agreed to the merger in the first place?

He thought of himself, standing on Kami’s lookout as explosions dotted the Earth below, and wondered if he was not precisely Kami’s other half as his father had been. Concern for himself had been at the fore, but there was sadness, too, for the loss of his home. He was not exactly the evil that his progenitor had symbolized.

                “I am sorry,” Dende said, after a moment, “but separations and fusions are not common. Guru had knowledge of them and knew some merged namekians, but I am given to understand that the transformation varies from pair to pair. The only thing that is the same among them is the technique.” He paused, and a slow, bittersweet smile transformed his mouth. “I suppose that is wrong, actually. One could say that Guru merged himself with me, but the mechanics of our situation are drastically different from yours.”

                “How is it for you, exactly?” The voice was curious, and Dende cocked his head, unaware which part of Piccolo was speaking to him.

                “Guru’s memories and knowledge exist in my head as though they were my own, as though my life is simply an extension of his. I am still, however, distinct. I do not have the feeling that I am the same person as he was.” Dende smiled impishly up at his frowning elder. “It is quite disconcerting to recall the period in which our memories overlap. Kind of...dizzying, to see it all from two viewpoints.”

                Piccolo scowled. “I have that every day,” he muttered, and Dende wisely remained silent.

                “Anyway,” the boy stood up, brushing off his white robes as he did so, “I should be getting back to the others. Would you,” he paused, nervous, “would you like to join us? It does not have to be right now,” he hastened to add, seeing Piccolo’s scowl deepen. “Or even every meeting. You may come as you like; we would be honoured to have you.” Dende executed a quick bow from the waist, and scuttled off before Piccolo had the chance to shoot him down outright.

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.

                Burter stared into the mirror as he towelled off the bony plating on his head.. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin had an usually grey cast to it. He looked downright exhausted, and felt twice that. He’d spent an age in the shower, the water so hot as to nearly scald him, and had gotten out only when his hide began to prune. He took his time deliberately with his post-shower routine, but given that he didn’t have hair to style or makeup to put on, he could only draw out drying himself for so long.

                With a heavy breath, Burter hung his towel on the hook and padded into his room, naked, where he sat on the bed and contemplated his computer for an unseemly amount of time. He was dreading writing the report to Frieza, even though he’d known the likely outcome of this trip before he’d ever left the mothership. He hadn’t found much of anything on Harbour Colony, and with no leads on where exactly Zarbon might have gone, he was even further away from finding his quarry than he’d ever been. The thought was at once comforting and eminently frustrating.

                Burter dressed slowly while his computer powered up, and tried to think of how best to word his lack of success to avoid bringing down Frieza’s ire. To his utmost surprise, there was a communication from an unfamiliar comm-link number waiting for him when he signed on to his program. Curiously, he clicked on it.

                . _Thanks for the kiss,_ it said, simply, _and that other thing, too._

                There was no signature and he first wondered if it might be from one of the women he’d left in bed that morning, but the date stamp on the message said he’d received it in the middle of the night, and while he couldn’t recall much, he thought that if someone was going to thank him, they’d have done it to his face rather than hop out of bed in the middle of things.

                A sudden thought struck him, and warmth seeped through his veins as a deep violet flush suffused his entire body. Could it possibly be Zarbon? He reached for the keypad, fingers trembling, but the second he tried to type a reply, another sentence popped up beneath the first.

                . _Sorry, no can do._

                Burter watched, stunned, as the screen closed and the whole program shut itself down. When he started it up again, there was no record of the mysterious message ever having existed. Panicked, he ran a quick virus scan, just in case, but nothing turned up and he relaxed back into his chair, certain that he’d gotten it right. It was Zarbon, it had to be.

                Feeling a bit lighter in all respects, Burter set his mind to the unpleasant task of making his report to Frieza.

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Galaxies away, Bulma was startled out of a fitful sleep by the sound of her computer chiming. Bleary eyed, she swiped her straggling hair from her forehead and peered at the screen. The program had been executed in its entirety, and had removed itself successfully from Burter’s computer.

                 “Well, good,” she said aloud, smacking her dry lips together and wincing at the stale taste in her mouth. She made a mental note to tell Zarbon later on; it was two-twenty-two in the morning, and she didn’t think he’d be up and about. Thinking about it, Bulma decided that she didn’t really want to be up and about either.

                Grimacing, Bulma sat up and tried to stretch out the kinks in her back. She’d fallen asleep in her chair, bent over her desk with her head pillowed on her arms, one of which had fallen asleep. Annoyed, she shook it out and grit her teeth the rush of pins and needles as normal bloodflow resumed.

                The ship was dark and quiet as she made her way to her room, the muted sound of the television in the common area the only sign of life as she made her to bed. She took a quick glance in as she passed, to see the back of Tien’s bald head as he flipped restlessly through the channels. Despite having been on board for quite some time, Tien still suffered heavily from the after effects of his experience in the slaver camps. He never said so aloud, but it was obvious to anyone who cared to look at him for long.

                Feeling guilty about it but too tired to stop and offer comfort in yet another direction, Bulma padded past the door and into the wing where the bedrooms lay. She was surprised to see Puar float out of the room he shared with Radditz, clutching a pillow that looked monstrous in his tiny cat paws.

                “What are you doing up?” she asked, startling him.

                “Radditz is tossing and turning in there,” Puar cocked his head back at his door, “and I can’t sleep. It’s difficult to get used to, this sleeping through the entire night.” He cast a self-effacing grin at her and she reached out and scratched him behind one ear. True to his nature, Puar had never kept a normal human sleep-cycle, awake and asleep at whatever odd hours suited him. The advent of his relationship with Radditz saw him trying to adjust, and apparently he was not coping as well as Bulma had thought. “I thought I’d go watch some TV.”

                “Tien’s out there,” Bulma said, and she felt bad to think she might be trying to warn one friend away from another. She hadn’t meant it in that way, but she wanted the cat to be prepared.

                “Yeah, I figured he would be.” Puar shrugged his little kitty shoulders and almost lost his grip on the big pillow. “He usually is, you know. Tien doesn’t sleep much. He, um, he has nightmares.” He paused, clearly wondering how much he should say and how much he’d been told in confidence. “He talks to me sometimes, but not much. He tries not to remember, and I don’t want to make him. I think sometimes just being there is helpful.”

                They stood in silence for a moment, simply watching each other, before Puar shrugged and made his exit, leaving Bulma standing alone in the dark. She was glad that someone was looking out for Tien, though felt guilty at the relief she felt that it didn’t have to be her. Bulma loved her friends, but it was tiring taking care of everyone around her. Between running Red Station and keeping the boys in technologically advanced training aids, she was exhausted. Add to that the effort of trying to complete her own projects and do her own research, and she was bagged. She needed someone else to take care of her, for once.

                Gratefully, she stepped into her room, squinting in the darkness to see Vegeta’s humped form beneath the bedclothes. She hoped he wasn’t too angry at her for earlier, mostly because she was cold after stripping off her coveralls, and really hoped he wouldn’t shun a bit of a cuddle. The bed was warm and she snuggled up to him, planting a kiss on his bare shoulder. He turned, half asleep, to draw her into him and she smiled into the darkness as his arm settled around her.

                “Are you awake?” she whispered, and he grumbled in response, which she took as a yes. “Did I wake you?”she asked, and his answer this time was to crack open one eye, the white of it barely visible in the dim light of the alarm clock, and glare at her. “Love you,” she crooned, snuggling in and pillowing her head on his arm.

                “Hn,” he said, his hand sliding down to rest on her hip. He squeezed gently, drawing her hips toward his own. He was naked beneath the blankets and his ardour, it seemed, had not been dulled by her earlier rejection of him.

                “Oh geez, you’re hardly even awake.”

                “Awake enough,” he muttered, hand sliding round to her backside, and she snorted with laughter. She rolled on top of him, straddling his belly, and planted her hands on the pillow on either side of his head. His hands kneaded her thighs and she groaned in pleasure.

                “Get my back,” she moaned, and he obliged, his fingers working up and down her spine as far as he could reach. “Oooh, that’s the spot.”

                “Bulma...” Vegeta growled, shifting beneath her, hands on her hips again to keep her steady. She laughed and moaned again, a long, drawn out sound that even had her a little turned on. His fingers clenched and she blinked like an owl in the dark, surprised at the sound of tearing fabric as Vegeta’s fists came away with a chunk of fabric in each.

                “Hey!” she yelped as the rest of her underwear flopped away from her body, wilting without the support of sides. “What the hell? I liked those!”

                “Accident,” Vegeta muttered, though she could hear the smile in his voice. “Fortunate accident,” he added, scooting her hips backward so that the stand of his erection pressed against her naked bottom. “I’ll buy you a whole drawer full of new ones.” He reached up and back to dig out a condom, and was halfway through unwrapping it when she took it from him.

                “Awfully presumptuous, aren’t you?” she asked, pulling the rubber out. She squeezed his ribcage with her thighs, supporting herself as she leaned back, rolling it down over him behind her back. She lifted herself, scooted backward a touch, and sat down on him, slowly. His hands covered her hips, and she put hers on top, squeezing once, before she began to move.

                He dislodged her hands, moving his own up to knead her back again and she laughed, put her hands on his chest, and moaned obligingly for him. Slowly, Bulma eased herself down onto his chest and allowed him to do the work for a few minutes.

                She would take care of everyone else, and he would take care of her.

 

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And there we have it. Apologies for any mistakes and awkwardness – I wasn’t as thorough in my editing as I normally am, in the interest of getting this thing posted.


	47. Chapter 47

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: I’m sorry to have been such a buttface; it’s been a really long time since the last update and I feel bad about that. I’m not going to go into details, but life sort of flipped upside down in the middle of February, and I floundered for a few months trying to deal with it. Things are not fixed, but they are okay for now. Thanks for your patience.

LAST TIME: The Burter Brigade found diddly on Harbour Colony, though Burter and Jeice did get all kinds of drunk and partied in all kinds of ways that they don’t much remember. Bulma and Sixteen discussed Goku’s condition and then Bulma helped Zarbon deliver a coded thank-you message to Burter. Zarbon got beat up by Vegeta for territorial reasons, but Bulma wasn’t having any of that. Piccolo had a conversation with Dende about merging and splitting, and Bulma made up with Vegeta. We left off in the middle of the night, as Puar was going into the common room to watch TV with Tien.

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PRESENT DAY

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                Puar clutched his pillow tightly to his chest as he floated slowly down the hall toward the common room, where Tien was watching tv. He could see the light flashing on the walls through the doorway, but the sound was so low that he could hardly even pick it up. That wasn’t unusual; Tien was not accustomed to watching the television for entertainment. He relied on it to keep him awake when dreams were more than he could handle.

                Puar wondered if anyone else on the ship knew just how problematic Tien’s insomnia had become. The former assassin tended to keep to himself already; it was easy to not notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the slow, burdened way in which he moved, as though wearing doubly weighted clothing. It wasn’t always that way, of course, and it wasn’t as though the others didn’t care enough to notice, it was just that they were busy. With no special talents of his own, there were few demands on Puar’s time. He wasn’t expected to train like the fighters, nor spend his hours in the lab, dreaming up new machines and improvements to existing ones. He wasn’t particularly good at cooking, and his skill at doctoring didn’t go far beyond basic first aid. He’d spent a lot of time on the ship’s radios, listening carefully for any news or reports regarding Red Station or the resistance, but with the coming of the nameks, there were many ears to share the work.

                So Puar did what he was asked to do around the ship, he helped Bulma in her lab and kept Radditz warm at night, and when he wasn’t busy with those things, he slept and he watched. It didn’t bother him; he was used to being a sidekick.

                Quietly and without comment, Puar floated into the common room and set himself up on the couch beside Tien. He cuddled his pillow close and sank into the cushions. Tien turned the volume up on the tv just a few notches, so that it was comfortably audible.

                “You couldn’t sleep?” he asked, after a few minutes.

                “Nah,” Puar said, not offended by the fact that Tien had neither greeted him nor even looked his way yet. It was only recently that the triclops had begun to initiate conversation in these night-time vigils of theirs. It wasn’t that he was being standoffish, Puar knew, it was just that he didn’t have the energy to fake sociability like he did during the day. “Radditz is all over the place tonight. Fighting monsters in his sleep or something. He rolled on top of me and almost crushed me.”

                That comment almost drew a smile from Tien, who had finally started to grow easier around the saiyans. They weren’t his favourite people and never would be, but he’d learned enough of their personalities outside the ring to be able to disassociate them from the soldiers who’d captured him on Earth. He still didn’t go train with them, but at least he was no longer hiding himself from them…well, no more than he was hiding from everybody else.

                “I’m not bothering you, am I?” Puar asked, well aware that sometimes Tien hid from him, too.

                “No, it’s fine.” Tien flipped to another channel. “I could probably do with the company, anyway. I’ve been,” he paused, “thinking too much.”

                “About what?” Puar asked, inching closer. He put a tentative paw on Tien’s leg and when the other man didn’t say anything about it, the cat climbed up into Tien’s lap and curled into a ball. Tien’s hand found the back of Puar’s head automatically, fingers scrunching gently behind tiny blue ears just so. “Tien?” the cat prompted, and he felt the man’s hand tense in the scruff of his neck.

                “Chaouzu,” he said, after a long moment. “I was thinking about him.”

                “Will you tell me what happened?” Puar let out an undignified little squeak, his rump rising as Tien’s hand passed all the way down his back. It was not a fitting moment for such a sound, but he couldn’t help it. Tien appeared not to have noticed, and had resumed scratching Puar’s ears. The cat closed his eyes and sighed in bliss. Tien petted the way Yamcha had. It was the automatic gesture of a human in relation to an animal, where Radditz’s petting had a far different quality, one that made him blush just to think about it.

                “He died.” Tien said, and Puar’s eyes popped open in surprise. They’d all assumed it so, but Tien had never been willing to discuss it before. He’d never actually said the words. “He self destructed…on Earth. To save me.” Puar could feel the tension in Tien’s legs and he tried very hard to be still and quiet, so as not to interrupt the moment. Tien’s hand had stopped moving; it was resting on Puar’s ribcage, and the cat could feel it trembling as fingers clenched in his fur. It hurt, and he tried not to squirm. “He took out fifty men, easily,” Tien continued, “but it wasn’t enough. They kept coming, so many…”

                “I’m sorry,” Puar murmured, but Tien’s eyes were far away, as though he wasn’t aware of what was happening around him anymore. His grip on Puar’s neck relaxed for a moment, but it tightened again when he next spoke.

                “There were times in the camp…the slave camp…I thought it would be better to join him. There were no weapons to hand, and I lacked the strength to do it myself. It was the only thing I could have done for myself…and I could not.”

                Puar turned to face Tien, stood on his hind legs, and put both his front paws on Tien’s cheeks. The motion startled the triclops and he looked down into the little cat’s face. The fur between Puar’s toepads tickled his face, and even retracted, he could feel the tips of sharp little claws poking his skin. “I’m glad,” Puar said, and repeated it when he felt the moisture of Tien’s tears soaking into his fur. “We are all glad that you lived. Don’t be so foolish. We’ve lost enough, all of us. Don’t you go, too.”

                Tien’s arms shot out, as though on their own, and he hugged Puar tightly to his chest. Puar reached up and wrapped his stubby little cat arms around Tien’s neck. No sooner than he had buried his face in the crook of Tien’s shoulder, Puar heard the growling.

                “Oh shit,” he said, stiffening in Tien’s grasp as he caught sight of Radditz standing in the doorway. Tien turned too, immediately letting go and hopping off the couch. He backed away a few steps as Radditz advanced, naked but for a pair of black underwear. Illuminated only in the erratic, flashing light of the television screen, with his shadow dancing madly on the wall, he looked ten times bigger than he actually was. “Radditz,” Puar said, and floated a hesitant foot forward. He darted back again when the warrior’s aura flared and Radditz let out something unintelligible in Saiyan. Puar’s grasp of the language was limited mostly to things that his mate gasped out in bed, but he knew Radditz well enough to know that what was being said was not good.

                “What the fuck?” Radditz demanded, this time in Standard.

                “It’s not-” Puar started to say, but was interrupted as Tien grabbed him and pulled him back, setting the airborne cat firmly behind him. It was meant to be a protective gesture, one borne purely of instinct, but the agitated saiyan only saw the hands that had been holding his cat, grasping him once again.

                “Don’t fucking _touch_ him!” Radditz was across the room before the Earthlings could even blink, shoving Tien into the entertainment stand. The television rocked with the impact, and light bathed the room, colours scattering the ceiling, then the floor as it tipped back and forth. It was saved from falling by Tien’s back as it hit him with a loud thump. He grunted, feeling the air leave his lungs, and wheezed desperately for breath. His head spun and Radditz’s crackling energy was a dull roar in his ears. Dimly, he heard Puar shrieking in the background, and suddenly the beast’s hands were off him. Radditz backed away, snarling, and Tien saw that Puar was clinging madly to the thrashing saiyan’s shoulder, his little claws dug into Radditz’s cheek. A trail of blood seeped down Radditz’s face and onto his chest, and there were scratches down one of his arms. He reached up and tried to grab the wriggling animal, spinning in the process, to reveal a series of bleeding punctures leading up his back.

                Radditz grabbed a hold of Puar by the scruff of his neck, and howled as the cat bit into his shoulder. He yanked and blood spattered the floor as a chunk of him tore away too. Puar gagged and spit, his stomach curdling at the taste of saiyan blood on his tongue. Radditz flung him away, a pop and a puff of smoke and Puar was crouching on the ground in his human form, naked, his lips smeared red. The saiyan advanced, uncaring or unaware of the gaping wound in his shoulder. His chest was heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides, and Puar was reminded of their first encounter on Red Station, in the gravity chamber with Bulma and Vegeta looking on.

                “Radditz,” his voice cracked and he huddled against the wall, feeling small and afraid.

                “You’re mine,” the saiyan said, looming over him. He crouched down, hair pooling on the floor, muscles bunching as he took a knee, leaning forward with his hands braced against the wall. Puar was trapped, unable to escape as Radditz hunched closer and closer in, until their faces almost touched. “Mine.”

                Puar bared his bloody teeth, and Radditz leaned in and kissed him, hard. The saiyan came away with a punctured lip to match his shoulder. He grinned and swiped his tongue over the wound, briefly cleaning it of blood before it welled up again. “Get away from me,” Puar hissed, drawing his knees up tighter. He put his hands on Radditz’s chest and shoved for all he was worth, to no avail. A pop and his hands changed, fingers morphing into talons. Radditz snarled.

                “Make me.”

                “Get off of him!” Tien screamed as he slammed hard into Radditz, driving with his shoulder to knock the saiyan off balance, and they tumbled across the floor together, kicking and punching at each other. Puar scrambled to his feet and back a few steps, watching as the two warriors rolled. He took a step forward, hesitated as their positions shifted, then gathered his courage when Radditz gained the upper hand once more. Puar leapt in, grabbed Radditz’s tail with both hands, and yanked for all he was worth.

                The saiyan roared as pain shot through his entire body, singing along his spine and down through each and every nerve. It was an amazing sight, visible in its cruelty, as Puar watched the muscle spasms spread outward from the base of his lover’s tail, to the tips of his fingers and toes. Tien scrambled out from beneath the big man, panting as he scooted backward along the floor, and Puar dropped the furred appendage the second his friend was away.

                “R...Radditz?” He took a tentative step toward the gasping, huddled form on the floor.

                “DON’T TOUCH ME!” the saiyan howled. “Not you, not now.” He turned his face to the floor and Puar stood helplessly over him, not sure what to do.

                “What’s going on in here?” It was Bulma in the doorway, with Vegeta close behind her. She stood gaping, taking in the sight. Radditz balled on the floor, with Puar standing, completely nude, over top of him. Tien sat in the corner with a black eye and a nasty bruise spreading across his shoulder.

                Puar let out a squeak and popped back into cat form, just as Nappa’s bald head appeared above Vegeta’s. He floated to the center of the room, as though to block Radditz from view. “Um...” he faltered, looking back over his shoulder. “Uh...”

                “Is anyone seriously hurt?” Bulma made to crouch down beside Radditz but he snarled at her like a cornered dog, and she wisely rethought her decision. “Tien?” she went to him and helped him up from the floor, peering at his face and prodding at his shoulder as she did so. He was wide eyed and looked a little in shock, but to her surprise, nothing appeared broken.

                “We were only fighting for a few seconds, I think.” Tien said, shaking her hands away. “I’m fine,” he added, and Bulma felt like he really meant it. “I’m doing fine.” She craned her head to look up at him, and was surprised to see the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his split lip. “Puar, are you okay?”

                Puar nodded, though Bulma could see the blood on his muzzle, and wondered what injuries might be hiding beneath the fur.

                “Brat.” Nappa shouldered his way past Bulma, stooped down, and grabbed Radditz by the scruff of his neck. How he found it beneath all the hair, Bulma would never know. “Come on, get up you. Get your ass back to bed, you’ll be fine.” He hauled his young comrade up and let go, to leave Radditz standing on weak knees.

                “You don’t know what it’s like...” Radditz ground out, and Nappa scoffed and cuffed him on the back of the head.

                “Shut up brat, you don’t know anything. How do you think Vegeta and I trained the sensation out of our tails? How many pulls do you think it takes, before the pain doesn’t paralyze you anymore? How many after that till you can think straight, till you can move and bear it?”

                “Leave me alone, old man. I was alone all that time, you and Vegeta were playing at pulling each other’s tails.” Radditz’s voice was bitter and sour as he stalked off, nearly bowling Bulma over in his haste. Puar made to follow him, but Nappa caught the little cat’s blue tail in his fist and pulled him back, though far more gently than Puar had been with Radditz.

                “He’ll get over it, scruffball, but you’d better leave him to lick his wounds tonight.”

                “Oh, I thought...”

                “Seriously,” Nappa shrugged, “it’s your life but you’re small and breakable. He’s big and pissed.”

                “He’s probably right, Puar,” Bulma said, coming up behind the floating cat to scratch behind his right ear. “I see your pillow is out here, but I’ll go and grab you an extra blanket and maybe you can camp out here.”

                “Go sleep in my bed,” Tien was cracking his knuckles, “I won’t be using it tonight.”

                “Where are you going?”

                “I’m going to go and train. I feel...” He bounced on the balls of his feet and stretched his arms out in front of him, easing his shoulder muscles into readiness. “I feel ready.”

                “Okay...well, sorry,” Puar said clutching his paws together in front of his belly in embarrassment. “I don’t know what came over him.”

                “It’s not your action to apologize for.” Tien reached out and ruffled the cat’s fur. “But thanks anyway. Thanks for being around.” And with that, he was out the door and down the hall, on his way to the training decks below.

                “What’s gotten into him?” Nappa demanded as Tien was leaving, but nobody really bothered to answer him. Bulma smiled to herself and Vegeta didn’t say anything to anyone as he took her arm and steered her back toward their room. He’d made sure there was no major meltdown, he considered his duties done. They emerged into the hall to see Krillin, Gohan, and Dende standing in small conference, but Goku was, surprisingly, absent from the hubbub.

                “Everything okay?” Gohan asked, and it was obvious from their tense postures that they’d watched Radditz storm out. Nappa passed by with an uninformative grunt, leaving someone else to answer as he went back to bed.

                “For now,” Bulma replied, with a shrug. She was exhausted and it showed, and as callous as it seemed, she was glad that the mess had more or less resolved for the moment. “I’m not one hundred percent sure I understand what just happened, but whatever it was, it’s done for the night.” She drew her robe a little more tightly around herself and cinched the belt close. “Anyway, it’s late. We’re going back to bed.” Bulma reached out and patted Dende’s smooth head. “You boys should do the same. You’ve got early training.” She winked at Gohan and cocked her head toward Vegeta, who was waiting impatiently behind her. “G’night, guys.”

                Dende and Gohan turned back into their room as Bulma and Vegeta moved along down the hallway, but Krillin waited a moment before heading into the living room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Puar float fretfully about the room, trying to straighten the mess that had been made.

                “Puar,” Krillin said, and the cat seemed to jump a little higher in the air. He whipped around, the television remote clutched in his paws. He dropped in his surprise and it clattered to the floor, the back panel popping off. Puar swooped quickly to grab, it, chasing one battery as it rolled across the floor, but his shaking paws were not nimble enough to put it properly back together. “Here, I’ll do it.” Krillin reached out and took the handful of parts, slowly piecing them back together to allow the cat a bit of time to collect himself.

                “Thanks.”

                “Were you going to go sleep in Tien’s bed?” Krillin asked, and Puar shook his head violently, so hard that his whole body wiggled in the air.

                “No, no, no, I can’t. Roll around in Tien’s sheets all night? Radditz would go ballistic...Again.”

                “Ooh, good point.” Krillin rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired again at the mention of bed. “You could bunk with me, if you want.”

                “I’ll just curl up on the couch,” Puar said, and laughed at Krillin’s grimace. “I’m a cat, Krillin, I’ve slept in much worse places with complete comfort. Go to bed, you look exhausted.”

                “Yeah, yeah. You sure you’re going to be okay?” Krillin asked, feeling uncomfortable as he watched Puar float over the couch and settle into a little ball on top of his pillow.

                “I’ll be fine,” the cat insisted, his little blue paws kneading gently at the cushion beneath him.

                “Puar? I, uh,” Krillin crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the floor. He clenched his teeth and forced a loud breath from his nostrils. “I want you to be careful, Puar. I mean, I,” he stammered, “I know I’m not as strong as him, but if he doesn’t treat you right…well, I’ll pound his face in!”

                Krillin spun away then, too embarrassed to stick around for Puar’s response, and fled to his room. Piccolo’s bunk was empty, as usual, but the he was there, meditating in the corner on the floor, apparently unbothered by the beside light that Krillin had turned on upon wakening to Radditz’s power surge. Krillin tiptoed back to his bed, trying not to disturb his roommate more than he already had, but then Krillin heard him shift, and he knew that Piccolo was not as deep in concentration as he appeared to be. There was no way he could not have noticed what had been going on just down the hallway in the common room.

                “You know,” Krillin blurted before he could stop himself, “you could have come to help.”

                “It was none of my concern.” Piccolo did not move as he spoke, nor did he bother to look at Krillin. He frowned, deep lines creasing between his eyebrows and around the corners of his mouth, and tried to shut out the world again.

                “We’re all each other’s concern, you know,” Krillin snapped, full of momentary courage that he’d probably regret later. Piccolo cracked one eye and they glared at each other in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

                “Feh,” Piccolo scoffed, shut his eye, and went back to his meditation. Krillin, thus defeated, crawled beneath his covers and snapped out the light.

.

                Several decks down, Tien was surprised to hear the hum of the gravity machine in full operation. A quick flare of his senses left a smirk on his face though, and he advanced to see Goku through the porthole window in the heavy, metal door. He was doing one-armed pushups, concentrating so hard that he hadn’t even noticed he had an audience. Sweat was pouring off his body, pooling beneath him and soaking into the mat beneath.

                Loath to interrupt the other’s training session, but eager to work off some of the sudden energy he’d built up himself, he raised a hand and banged on the door. Startled, Goku’s free arm flailed, he teetered dangerously on the one holding him up, and suddenly toppled to the side.

                “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Tien apologized after the shutdown procedure completed and the door swung inward, Goku on the other side. Tien studied the other warrior, a one-time enemy, and noticed the dark rings beneath his eyes. It was unusual; he’d always thought of Goku as this happy-go-lucky kid, idealistic and hopeful in ways that Tien himself strove to emulate. The man before him looked bone-tired, teetering on the edge of something dark.

                “No problem,” Goku scratched the back of his head sheepishly. He smiled, and Tien saw some of the old Goku, but it wasn’t quite the same. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone, that’s all.” He blinked then, looking wide-eyed at the triclops in the doorway. “What happened to you?”

                “Oh,” Tien reached up to touch his swollen lip, his bruised jawbone. “Misunderstanding with Radditz. It’s, um, all settled,” he added, just in case Goku should feel some need to go into protective mode.

                “Ooh, yikes.” Goku winced. He was no stranger to pain, but when he got into it with his friends, it was all about training. It was weird to think that Tien and Radditz had fought for real. “Here to burn off the steam?”

                “Yeah,” Tien laughed, “something like that. Up for a spar?”

                “Always,” Goku said, stepping back so that Tien could enter the gravity room. He closed the door and walked over to the console, pausing before he input the commands. He gestured at the darkening bruises on Tien’s collarbone. “What are you okay for?”

                “Superficial wounds, nothing broken.” Tien brushed off his former enemy’s concern. “But if I’m being honest, I haven’t been in here enough to really know what I can handle. Start us off low with a warm up and we’ll go from there?” he suggested.

                Goku nodded and started the machine at five times Earth’s gravity, bumping it up to ten when Tien showed no signs of imminent collapse. He took the opportunity to do some more pushups, this time on one finger to account for the lesser gravity, while Tien did some stretching to loosen up his muscles. The brawl with Radditz had pumped him full of energy, but couldn’t really be counted as a proper warm up.

                “I should apologize to you,” Tien said after a short while. “We were never really friends but…” he paused, “But when you came, I should have been there. I was in a camp too, you know. I know what you’ve been through.” He faced the wall, his entire body flooded with embarrassment. Tien did not talk about feelings. “It changed you, too. I can see it on your face. And I should have been there to talk to…or something, I don’t know.”

                “I had Piccolo,” Goku said, and Tien finally turned, to see that the saiyan had paused mid-pushup, his body straight as an arrow, held up by only his toes and his right index finger.

                “Only you could take that as a comfort.” Tien snorted. “Okay, let’s do this thing.”

                Goku hopped to his feet and did a few quick arm stretches as he walked to one end of the room and Tien to the other. They turned to face each other, each man dropping into his preferred battle stance. “Okay,” Goku grinned like the child he’d been the very first time they’d faced each other, “One, two, three, GO!”

                The launched themselves at each other, screaming, and collided in a flurry of energy. Fists and feet flew as they thrashed together in the air, each one determined to do damage to the other. Tien scored a lucky hit, his fist catching Goku right in the mouth. It was a complete surprise to the saiyan, who’d been expecting the same listless, half-there Tien he’d sparred with so occasionally in the past months.

                “Wow,” Goku panted, wiping blood from his lip as they came apart. “You’re different. Intense.”

                “I’ve been in this cocoon since they brought me here, and Radditz…as much as I’d like to punch him in the face again,” Tien slammed his right fist into his open left palm, “I owe him. I know it sounds corny, but I had this moment where I thought he was going to kill me, and then I realized how much I want to live.” He stretched his head from side to side and the cracking of joints echoed in the chamber. “And if I want to live, I might have to make sure that someone else doesn’t.”

                Goku swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead, wiping up sweat with the weighted fabric band he wore, and didn’t say anything. He felt suddenly uncomfortable with the direction their training session had taken. He knew it, just like everyone else on Red Station, but Grandpa Gohan had taught him that life was sacred, from the smallest bug to the greatest god, and should never be taken lightly. Hunting for food was one thing, and killing in self-defense sometimes couldn’t be helped, but during his time in the camps, the line had blurred. It was something he didn’t like thinking about.

                “Anyway, I’ve let myself slide long enough. It’s time to train like it was the end of the world.” Tien planted his feet

                “Yeah.” Goku grinned and zipped forward. That, at least, he could get behind.

.

.

                The staff in the control room were all trying to do their jobs as well, and as quietly, as possible. Their master, Lord Frieza was one wrong move away from a full-out temper tantrum, and when Frieza had temper tantrums, people ended up dead. If they were lucky, there might be something left to send home for burial, but more often than not, fate would leave a soldier as nothing more than a splatter of blood on the wall for some poor schmuck on the cleanup crew to scrub up later.

                “I can’t believe you still haven’t caught that little saiyan runt,” King Cold’s voice was deep and smooth, but for everyone on the mothership’s bridge, it might have been a screeching siren. _Destruction Imminent. All Personnel Evacuate Immediately._ They held their positions, silently sweating as the veins in Frieza’s head bulged more and more.

                Those who could see the vid-screen had it worst, for they could see the bored look on King Cold’s face, and the taunting smirk on Cooler’s. Every once in a while, the two elder icejin would share a knowing look between them, and that was a surefire way to increase Frieza’s irritation.

                “Yes, little brother. I can’t believe you’re being outwitted by a dirty little ape, of all things! Those monkeys would still have been jabbing sticks into termite mounds, if not for our intervention.” Cooler stood behind his father’s chair, but even seated the King was so large that his son’s head should have been barely visible over his shoulder. Someone must have found a box for Cooler to stand on, and Frieza said as much.

                “Now, now, you know I hate it when my precious boys fight,” Cold covered a yawn with one massive, black-nailed hand. “But Cooler has a point, Frieza. How is it that Vegeta and his cretinous band of trained primates are still roaming free in your territory?”

                Frieza refrained from asking how his father and brother had come to know of his saiyan problem. King Cold might have gifted this part of the universe to his son to rule, but he hadn’t relinquished his hold completely. Frieza knew that if he started to lose control, his father’s forces would whisk in and relieve him of the pressures of his rule. He’d be sent back to his homeworld in shame, to live under daddy’s thumb for a few hundred years until he’d proven himself worthy of controlling more than a piddling galaxy again.

                “I have the situation under control, Father.” Frieza met his father’s eyes, and purposely continued to avoid looking at Cooler’s smug face. “I have agents tracking them down as we speak, and besides, no matter how he runs, Vegeta could never hope to _defeat_ me! The mere idea is laughable!” He forced a laugh himself, and was slightly mollified to see that his father was nodding along.

                “Every day that you let him run wild, more and more men defect from your forces. If you don’t catch him soon, you’re going to have a full scale uprising on your hands, little brother.”

                “Cooler, what you have in strength, you lack in brains,” Frieza snarled, though it hurt his pride to admit aloud that his brother was stronger than him. “You say that as though it even matters. Let the fools flock to him, let them speak of hope and freedom! I do not care! I will crush every single one of them beneath my fist, and raze every planet in my empire to space dust, if I have to!”

                “Caution, my son,” Cold plucked a delicate looking tart from a tray off screen and popped it whole into his mouth. “Empty space is useless space. What value is a trillion galaxies of nothing? Take cue from your big brother, his profits this quarter are nothing short of amazing. Perhaps he should take a little trip out to check into your operations, give you some tips.”

                Cooler smirked again, and Frieza forced himself to swallow a gulp of wine before he trusted himself to speak again. “I have it under control,” he repeated, finally. “Cooler has his own business to attend to; I will take care of Vegeta.”

                “Good. See that you do,” King Cold reached for another treat, and Frieza’s screen went blank as their communication was cut off from his father’s side. He grabbed his goblet and downed the contents in a single gulp, before holding it out for an attendant to fill. He sipped this glass more slowly, staring furiously at the blank screen as he swirled the expensive alcohol around and around.

                “I’ll bury him,” he muttered sourly, imagining his brother’s smirking face. “And then father will see which of us is the better son, which of us is better suited to be his heir.” How dare they treat him like such a child! He was the ruler of a thousand planets, billions of people bowed down to him! And Cooler, with his smug, surly face, he was a worm. Frieza stared at the people around him, so tiny like ants, and the stem of his wineglass snapped in half before he even realized he was squeezing it. The glass did not penetrate his rough palms but it was irritating nonetheless. Disgusted, Frieza dropped the remnants of his goblet on the floor beside his chair. The glass shattered and the wine splattered the floor and the side of his chair, but Frieza paid it no mind. Someone else would take care of it.

                Frieza stood abruptly and left the room without a word, as though the dozen officers in the control room did not even exist. They might as well have been machines, for all Frieza cared about them. They were peons, the lot of them, and below his consideration. He wanted the company of only one person right now, but that person happened to be a backstabbing son of a bitch, so he had to make do with second best.

                He headed toward his private apartments, each tense step a warning to those around him. No one dared get in his way as he made his way up and up to the very highest level of his ship. His pace quickened with every second; he was eager to be away from his life, cozy in his own space. It was only there that he could forget the pressures on his shoulders and the constant need to prove his worth. He was tired and worn, and when he finally reached the elevator and found it blissfully empty, his desire to sag against the wall was beat out only by the sure knowledge that somewhere on this ship, someone was monitoring the security camera therein.

                Frieza’s tail flicked behind him, his nose wrinkling as the coppery tang of blood assaulted his nostrils. He stood at the entrance to his chambers, paused in the doorway for so long that the door’s sensor began to beep, reminding him to get the hell out of the way so it could close. Briefly, Frieza thought about smashing the console to stop the noise, but he didn’t want to deal with the hassle of having someone fix it, especially given what he was sure to find in his apartments.

                Sighing, he crossed the threshold and the door whooshed shut behind him. Blissful silence.

                Upon first glance, nothing appeared to be out of order. His things were all present and accounted for, immaculately clean and perfectly in place. From across the apartment, he heard the steady plink of dripping water, and wondered what state he’d find this one in.

                At any given moment, there were only two people on board the ship that had the access codes to Frieza’s apartment. Frieza himself, and his right hand officer. For years, more than he could actually keep track of, that had meant Zarbon. In the time since Zarbon’s betrayal and escape, there’d been four. The most recent one, Hark, had been around less than a month; one of the others had not made it through even a week.

                Frieza crossed the apartment, stone tile giving way to lush, thick carpet as he moved from the entryway into the living room. The carpeting stretched from wall to wall and was still so new that it sprang up like moss between Frieza’s toes as he walked. It had been replaced only recently; Hark’s predecessor had made rather a mess of the last one, as well as a couch that Frieza had been particularly fond of, in his self-inflicted exit from the universe. Red stains were just _impossible_ to get out of cream upholstery.

                The bathing chamber was Frieza’s favourite room of any on his mothership, perhaps his favourite place in the entire universe. A ledge ran around the perimeter, with an open air shower on the wall opposite the entrance, but the center of the room stepped down in chunky gradations to a steaming, sunken pool. The walls were floor-to-ceiling vid-screens so he could just as easily conduct business as enjoy any number of pre-programmed displays. They showed a forest when he entered, lush and green, tree branches swaying gently in a breeze. No animals were visible, and the speakers were nearly silent but for the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. The steady drip of water that Frieza had heard was real; the shower had been left on and the floor drains plugged with wadded towels. The water was slowly filling up the lower steps leading into the bath. Given another hour, perhaps less, it would have flooded completely and spilled into the rest of his quarters.

                Frieza did not need to turn on the scouter affixed to his temple to know that he would soon be sharing the access code to his apartments again.

                Hark’s body floated face-up in the center of the growing pool, the pink-tinged water lapping at his skin with the gentle current created by the shower runoff. It was dark red nearest the source, two gaping wounds where he’d slashed his forearms lengthwise from wrist to elbow. He was fully clothed, and his long, green hair floated around him like seaweed, unbound. Frieza walked around the edge of the pool and shut the shower off with the tap of a button. He stood in the puddled water, still staring at the control panel, and balled his fists at his sides. A flick of his thick tail, and the wadded, waterlogged towels hit the wall with a wet splat, before sliding down to the floor. The steady dribble of water into the pool slowed as the drains cleared up.

                The reek of blood in the room was strong, but Frieza paid it no mind as he turned once more to study Hark. His face was pale, but composed and serene; he’d spent his last moments not in this bathing chamber, but in a forest pool, surrounded by nothing but the air and the trees.

                Frieza stepped down one stair and his scaly, clawed feet were lost beneath the water. He took another stair and was submerged to his knees, a third reached his waist and he didn’t care that he was ruining his clothes in the blood-tinged bath. He reached out to touch Hark’s pale cheek, and the motion set the body spinning slowly around. The skin of his feet and hands had gone plump and wrinkly, but the rest of him had yet to bloat. The body was still warm, but Frieza could not tell if that was due to timing or the temperature of the water. It was hot, not scalding, but enough to have steamed up the entire room.

                Frieza reached out and stopped the body’s motion, tugging it back so that Hark’s head lay in the crook of his arm. He clutched a lock of hair, thick and heavy between his fingers. It was a deep, emerald green like Zarbon’s had been, yet even longer. Beyond that, the similarities were few. Zarbon’s features had been fine, yet strong, while Hark’s face was soft and round, cherubic. He was pale pinkish in complexion, like the filthy saiyans, but lacked their tone and muscle definition. Hark’s people were stick slim telekinetics, with hardly the physical power to bruise a piece of fruit. They used their minds for everything, which was both their biggest weakness and greatest strength. No matter how physically damaged the body might have been, if the conscious was still functional, so was their fighting power. However if the mind was in some way compromised, due to sleep deprivation or drugs, the body was completely useless.

                Frieza frowned down at the face below him. Hark had been particularly strong of mind; it was a surprise that he’d broken so quickly under strains that Zarbon had endured for more than a decade. Frieza stroked the hair again, plucking a dripping clump of it up and out of the water to examine it more closely. It was rougher in texture than Zarbon’s, and not quite the same colour, however close. Hark had also been in the habit of wearing his hair loose, but he’d braided it for his master, and it had been enough.

                Frieza backed up and sat on the first stair so that just the bottom half of his body was submerged. He pulled Hark’s floating body across the water and between his parted knees. Frieza cradled the dead man in his arms and buried his face in emerald green hair, all the while thinking of someone else.

.

.

                When Puar woke up, it took a moment for his fuzzy brain to remember why he was sleeping on the couch in the common room. He kneaded the pillow beneath him with his paws and rolled over to look at the clock. It was already past nine in the morning, and he was shocked to realize that no one had interrupted his sleep yet. The crew all tended to be early risers, even those with nothing to do immediately. Why, Mrs. Briefs was even missing the soap opera coming in on the Hijar Galaxy timeframe.

                He breathed in, and immediately understood why.

                Radditz was sitting on the far end of the couch, hands clasped between his knees. His eyes were closed and he was still as a statue. It was way past the saiyans’ usual morning training time, yet he was still in his pyjama pants, shirtless, and it was plain that he hadn’t been to the gravity room yet. He smelled of their bed still, and yet looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. The pillowcase rustled with Puar’s movement, and Radditz’s eyes snapped open at the sound. He turned to look at Puar, who hunkered down into the false safety of the pillow.

                “M…morning Radditz,” Puar squeaked. He realized that he was cowering and sat up a little. The previous night, for the first time ever, it had really hit home just how volatile and violent Radditz could be. He’d known the facts, of course, but it wasn’t the same. Bulma had warned him that this moment would come, and Puar hadn’t realized just how right she was. He’d been a desert thief and no stranger to violence, but Radditz’s explosion had frightened him. The saiyan had attacked without giving anyone a chance to explain, and Puar could count on one paw the number of people on board who could defeat Radditz in a fight. He and Tien were not among that number, but rather in the ship’s population of people that could be easily slaughtered before help could be counted on to arrive. They’d done admirably together, but Puar counted it pure luck that he’d been able to get a hold of Radditz’s tail.

                “G...good morning,” Radditz said, and Puar was quite taken aback. He’d never heard any of the saiyans use such niceties, even in direct response to a greeting of the same kind. “Did you,” Radditz gestured at the pillow, “sleep okay out here?”

                “Not really,” Puar responded.

                “I slept like shit. Didn’t really sleep, actually.” Radditz ran a hand through his snarled and tangled hair. He’d spent most of the night pacing, and the few times he’d thought he might be tired enough to fall asleep, he’d simply tossed and turned before getting up to pace again.

                “Good.” Puar said acidly, and Radditz winced a little bit. Puar wished he had some clothes handy so that he could transform into his human form without having to have this conversation in the nude. He always felt like he was at such a disadvantage in his natural form.

                Radditz opened up his mouth to speak, shut it, thought a moment, and opened it again. “I wasn’t going to kill him, you know,” he said, and Puar watched the ripple of his arms and sides as his muscles tensed. “But he was...he was _touching_ you,” Radditz added when Puar said nothing, “petting you all over.” His hands clenched in his lap and he clamped his jaws shut. His tail was wrapped around his waist but Puar could see the tip of it jerking back and forth.

                “Bulma pets me all the time,” Puar pointed out.

                “But that’s _hot_!” Radditz exploded, jumping up off the couch. He paced toward the television and turned back. He was careful not to come too close to his mate; he didn’t think it would be appreciated after what had happened the night before. “And you’re not into chicks and s’far as I know she’s not into cats, so I know nothing would ever happen; it’s innocent wank material, everybody wins! But I walk in to find you all cuddled up in some guy’s lap, and what the hell reaction do you expect?”

                “Wait, back up.” Puar put one paw out to signal Radditz to stop babbling, and put the other to his forehead. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, Radditz was sitting on the coffee table, hands between his knees again, looking forlorn. He was like a big dog, Puar thought, who’d been caught doing something bad. He was trying so hard to ingratiate himself, yet given the chance, he’d be digging through the garbage again in no time. “Did you say _wank material_?” Puar was incredulous. “You mean to tell me you ja...” he paused, mid word, cheeks hot beneath his fur, really wishing that they were having this conversation in their quarters. For all he knew, the entire crew could be on the other side of the wall, listening in through the open doorway. “You imagine Bulma petting me when you...err...mmph?” He made a quick, rude gesture with his paw and glanced back at the door to be sure that no one was peeking in.

                “Sometimes,” Radditz admitted, shrugging, and then seemed to realize that he might be making a mistake admitting it. “Not all the time. My focus is on you, I swear. She’s just a prop!” he added quickly.

                “In cat form,” Puar clarified, and Radditz cocked his head, not quite sure how to read the disbelief in his partner’s voice. The saiyan nodded slowly and hoped his honesty would not land him another night alone. “I...” Puar tried to speak and found that he was stumped. “I don’t know whether to be disturbed or pleased by that. What the hell is wrong with you?”

                “Nothing’s wrong with me! You’re my mate in any form, haven’t I said all this before?”

                Puar tiptoed across the couch on four paws, and climbed into Radditz’s lap. “You’ve said it before,” he agreed, and realized that he’d never really let it sink in. “Just pet me for a bit, okay?” he asked, grabbing one of Radditz’s big hands in both paws and placing it on top of his head. “And promise me you won’t pick any more fights with our friends. I would never cheat on you, never.”

                “You won’t let anyone else pet you?” Radditz asked, scratching Puar behind the ears.

                “I’m a cat, Radditz. My friends will give me platonic pets.” His voice was firm, for all it was a high-pitched squeak. There was a part of him that was tempted to agree, especially as Radditz’s legs tensed beneath him, but Puar was determined to take a cue from Bulma; he would not be ruled. “There are plenty of things you do that make me uncomfortable,” he went on, “and I will do my best to reconcile myself to them. In turn, you will do the same for me.”

                Radditz growled, and Puar hopped off his lap and floated a few feet away. “I’m going to give you the day to think,” Puar said. “I’m going to sleep in our bed tonight. If you can handle this, you may join me. Otherwise,” he shrugged, “you’re going to have to find a new roommate.” He turned away and began to float out of the room, but paused as a huge sigh emanated from the man behind him.

                “Who the hell are you, and what did you do with Puar?” Radditz grumbled, getting up. “I don’t need a whole day, you fucking ballbuster. Come on.” He plucked the cat right out of the air and plonked him down on one bare shoulder. “Come make us breakfast, and I’ll tell you all about how I plan to share a bed with you tonight.”

                “Why do I have to make breakfast?” Puar clung tight as Radditz made his way to the kitchen, and tried not to dig in too hard with his claws. Radditz was already sporting puncture marks on the other shoulder from the previous night.

                “Because you don’t like ki-fried hunks of meat, and that’s about all I can cook.”      

.

.

                “Hey Bulma,” Chichi’s voice crackled over the speaker in the lab, and Bulma turned to her comm-unit and brought up the video screen. “I think you’d better come up to the bridge.”

                “Why, what’s up?”

                “Because the ship is telling me we’re approaching our destination, and it wants to know if I’d like to switch into manual controls. I know I don’t, but I thought you might.”

                Bulma blinked twice as she processed Chichi’s words, and looked at the date on her computer screen. “Wow,” she said. “Time sure went fast.”

                “Soooo, are you on your way up then?” Though she spent a lot of time on the deck manning the radios, Chichi had terrible anxiety concerning anything to do with the ship’s deeper functions. She was afraid that one push of the wrong button would cause the engines to explode or cut off all life support. Considering Roshi and Oolong’s GRAV debacle, Bulma supposed her fears were not unfounded.

                “Damn right, I am!” Bulma grinned and spun back to her desk, where she tapped a few quick notes into her project file before closing the program down. She wondered if she could take the time for a quick shower before heading up to take control of the ship. They’d be landing on Planet Tech-Tech in a few hours, and Bulma really didn’t want to meet her brother-in-law looking like a slob.

               

 


	48. Chapter 48

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Hello everybody. I’m not actually sure where all the time went since my last update. I think I stepped into a reverse-Narnia, where it felt like a few weeks but actually it was several months.

 

. _Last Time: Radditz lost his shit on Tien for cuddling with cat-form Puar, though the ensuing scuffle helped push Tien back into some semblance of normalcy. Frieza had a spat with King Cold over his handling of the Vegeta situation and returned to his apartments to find his latest companion dead in his bathing chamber. Radditz and Puar make up, and the ship’s computers warn our crew that they are approaching planet Tech-Tech._

.

.

                “Zoom in,” Bulma commanded aloud, and the viewscreen obligingly zeroed in on Planet Tech-Tech. It was still far away enough to be small to the naked eye, but she’d programmed the ship’s computer to alert her with plenty of time before landfall. It would be a few hours before they entered the planet’s atmosphere, which gave her a nice cushion of time in which to carry out all the last minute preparations.

                Vainly, her first priority had been a shower, though she’d made it quick before zipping up to the bridge with still-wet hair. The autopilot was running but she wanted to stay close to the ship’s controls from here on out; the planet’s gravitational field and was not very strong, but Tech-Tech boasted a charming little asteroid belt. Obstacles were sparse enough for the autopilot to handle at the moment but Bulma knew she might be required to take over as they entered into the denser parts of the belt.

                Her father sat a few feet away, busy running safety diagnostics on the ship. Kitty sat on his shoulder as usual, watching Dr. Briefs’ fingers as they tapped away at the keyboard. According to the logs, the part of Red Station that had been Gero’s original ship had not made planetfall since the early days of its testing phases, before the old doctor had left Earth for good. Gero had been well stocked, and by the time he’d found it necessary to venture out for supplies, he’d already built a small transport vessel to commute to and from Red. Entering the planet’s atmosphere would be rough on the big ship, and they needed to make sure that structural integrity would be maintained in the face of all that pressure and heat.

Bulma herself had already set the previously unused atmospheric sensors to earthling settings. The presence of Vegeta’s brother meant that saiyans could survive easily on Planet Tech-Tech, but humans, cats, and pigs were another story. For all Bulma knew, the very air itself could be full of carbon monoxide and they could all be dead within minutes of leaving the ship. She still wasn’t sure the namekians would be okay, but she hoped that Piccolo’s survival on Earth all those years would mean that they shared similar enough physiology with humans.

                Bulma twisted a piece of still-damp hair between her fingers to encourage her natural curl, and thought that maybe she’d make sure that Dende stayed back until they determined it was safe.

                “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee, Dad. Do you want anything?” Bulma pushed away from the console and yawned.

                “Nothing for me, thanks,” her father muttered, squinting from the screen to an open binder as he double checked some of the figures that were coming up. On his shoulder, Kitty mewled quietly. “But perhaps a dish of something fishy for my friend here,” Dr. Briefs added, without missing a beat.

                “Of course, of course.” Bulma shuffled out of the room, her rubber-soled slippers scuffing against the metal tiles of the floor as she went. The kitchen was empty when she got there, and the remnants of the coffee from breakfast were turning to sludge in the pot, so she dumped it down the sink and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. She tossed the grounds from the mesh filter into a bucket under the sink, quickly replacing the steel lid to trap the pungent smell of kitchen waste. Her mother had begun a small composting operation in the conservatory so they’d been saving all of the fruit and vegetable scraps, eggshells, and other assorted bits to contribute to the pile.

                Once a new pot of coffee was brewing, Bulma dug in the cupboard for a can of the squishy, fishy mush that they kept stocked for Kitty and, on occasion, Puar. She wrinkled her nose against the smell and breathed through her mouth as she opened the can and scooped some out into a dish. “Euch, how can they eat this?” She poked at the pile with her spoon and stuck out her tongue, but she knew that Kitty would go mad for it.

                Radditz walked in with Puar on his shoulder just as the coffee maker chimed. Both of them looked significantly worse for wear. Radditz’s chest was bare – he was wearing only his pyjama pants, and on his other shoulder Bulma could see the puncture marks from the previous night. There was a very light shadow of bruising on the left side of his ribs, most likely from Tien’s foot or fist, that she hadn’t previously noticed. It didn’t seem to be giving him any trouble though, and wasn’t severe enough that she thought it beyond what he deserved.

                Without speaking, Bulma turned away, grabbed a mug, and filled it with steaming coffee. She added cream and sugar, and when she turned back around, she found that Radditz was still standing in the same spot, watching her with wary eyes, while Puar had floated over to perch on the edge of the table. Bulma focused on Puar first, and when she turned her gaze to Radditz, he seemed to shrink back a little. She exhaled heavily through her nostrils, lips pressed together in a thin line as she contemplated her next words.

                “So I don’t really want to have to say this,” Bulma took a sip of her coffee and narrowed her eyes at the saiyan, “and I really shouldn’t _have_ to do it, because last I checked, I didn’t agree to babysit a bunch of grown men.” She felt a little hypocritical, given Vegeta’s attack on Zarbon, but she pressed on, set her mug down and put her hands on her hips. “What happened last night _cannot_ , under any circumstances, happen again. You were way out of line, Radditz. I don’t know what set you off, and I don’t care. You need to learn to control yourself.” Bulma crossed her arms across her chest, cocked her hip to the side, and prepared for an onslaught of saiyan anger.

                Radditz bristled; the fur on his tail stood on end and Bulma could see the tension spreading through bare, bunched muscles. To her surprise, Radditz remained silent.  He crossed his arms and glared down at the floor, then up at Bulma, who stood her ground and glared right back. He bared his teeth at her and Bulma felt her knees get a little wobbly, but he made no move to attack.

                “Look, I’m sure you’ve already talked about it, got it worked out between yourself” she tried again, a little softer this time, “but as Captain of this ship, the safety of everyone aboard is my responsibility. We all know I can’t keep everyone in line by force, so I have to depend on you guys to police yourselves.  I need to know I can trust you. We’re a team, Radditz, all of us.” Bulma smiled gently, encouragingly, but felt herself falter the longer Radditz went on without a response. It was unnatural. He should have been swearing a blue streak.

                “Vegeta’s mother was the strongest woman on Vegetasei,” Radditz said, finally. “The queen before her was a bloodthirsty warrior, and every single one down through our history a strong, powerful female.” He cocked his head, eyeing Bulma’s soft, curvy body and friendly face. After showering, she’d changed from her coveralls into a sundress that exposed her thin, pale limbs and emphasized her lack of musculature. “You are not like your predecessors, and I do not know what to make of you.” Radditz turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen without breakfast, leaving both earthlings staring after him, slack jawed.

                “Did he just...insult me?” Bulma turned toward her feline friend. Radditz could be incredibly crass and rude, but he was generally complimentary to her.

                “I...I’m not sure,” Puar replied, miserably. “I think so.” He was so embarrassed, he wanted to crawl into a hole and just die. “He, uh, called you a queen though,” the cat added. “I think that was maybe him agreeing to follow orders?”

“Yeah, except I think he also said I’m the shittiest queen there ever was.”

Puar looked at Bulma’s downturned eyebrows and the thin, compressed line of her lips. His attempt at appealing to her sense of vanity had obviously not helped. “I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed.” He cringed and tucked his tail tightly around himself, as though he could disappear if he simply made himself small enough.

                “Nothing for you to apologize for,” Bulma sighed in frustration and dumped another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “Fucking saiyans,” she muttered, stirring hard so that the spoon clinked loudly against her ceramic mug. “Who even said I wanted to be their queen? Could you imagine? It’d be all, _Here’s a crown made of the bones of our enemies!_ ” As usual, her Vegeta impression was bad. “And besides that, can you _ever_ see Vegeta getting down on one knee to pop a ring on my finger?” She waved her bare left hand at Puar. “Hah! As if.” Bulma took her mug and plopped down in the chair next to where Puar was sitting. “If he ever did, I’d be so paranoid it was another Ginyu-type in his body that I wouldn’t even be able to say yes.”

                “I don’t think wedding rings existed on Vegetasei.” Puar swallowed thickly. “I think we’re sort of married to them simply by virtue of them deciding they want us.” He paused, frowning. “To be honest, I’m torn between being incredibly flattered and incredibly insulted by the thought.”

                “Ha!” Bulma snorted and pounded the table with her open palm. “Welcome to womanhood. I feel like I’ve stepped back into caveman times, and I refuse to count myself lucky that I haven’t been dragged off by the hair yet.” She reached up and twirled another section of hair around her fingers before letting it go, allowing the curl to spring gently into place. “Radditz once told me that if I ever hooked up with anyone else, Vegeta would probably rip their heart out their asshole.” Bulma groaned and rested her chin in her hands, elbows braced on the table. “At the time I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t speaking literally, but I was really just fooling myself.”

                “I don’t know how to stand up to Radditz very well,” Puar admitted. “I think I let him off the hook too easily.”

                “Same boat.” Bulma nodded and reached out one hand to pat Puar on the head. Puar flushed beneath his fur, thinking of what Radditz had said about that but Bulma’s heavy tone changed the direction of his thoughts quickly. “I sometimes think that Vegeta is an awful person,” Bulma said, quite bluntly. She sighed and Puar crept closer as her fingers found a sweet spot behind his ears. “But it doesn’t seem to matter, somehow. I think about what he’s done in the past, and I should be revolted. He should make my skin crawl, but I can’t seem to stop myself when it comes to him. God, it’s so cliché that it’s embarrassing. I bet this is how mob wives feel.”

                “Are we bad people?” It wasn’t the first time Puar had asked himself such a question. He’d been plagued by feelings of self-loathing since his early days, when he and Yamcha used to rob unsuspecting travellers. Yamcha’s conversion to the good-guy team had been a huge relief for Puar, but the doubts had come back full force the moment he’d accepted his second drink from a certain saiyan.

                “Maybe.” Bulma sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hand stilled on Puar’s neck. “Maybe not. Sometimes I think that no matter what else Vegeta does, if I can change his attitude just a little bit, or stop him from killing just one person, I can justify myself.” Bulma pushed back her chair and stood abruptly. “Or maybe I’m just delusional,” she added, hoping to get a smile out of the cat. He looked so serious, so torn. She remembered her own shock and horror at seeing Vegeta drive his fist through the Arlian’s chest, sticky slick fist protruding out the other side. In that moment, he’d been a monster, and the way her heart still beat for him had made her sick to her stomach. Even now, months later, the memory sent shivers down her spine. Puar was new to the game and it would take time before he could effectively balance his affection with his guilt at feeling it.

                “I took my humanoid form so I wouldn’t look so harmless,” Puar wiped at his eyes with fuzzy paws, “but it didn’t make me any stronger. I’m so weak, not just physically.” He cried as Bulma gathered him close, cuddling his furry little body against her breast. “I’m a cowardly person, Bulma. I hate it.”

                “You’re not. What you did last night, jumping in there and trying to help Tien, that took some serious courage. You don’t have to have muscles to be strong, you just have to stand up for what you believe in.” Bulma stroked the back of Puar’s neck and patted his back. She snagged a napkin from the center of the table and handed it to him so he could dry his tears.

                “But I don’t. Not enough.”

                “Do you think all those saiyans were born so freakishly strong?” Bulma asked. “You and me, yeah, we’re weak. Our bodies will never be as tough, but our spirits…there’s no limit.”

                “You’re so corny, do you know that?” Puar was sniffling and smiling at the same time, and Bulma grinned as he buried his face in the napkin.

                “Gotta be, my fuzzy friend,” she grinned and gave him a noogie, “or I would go completely insane.”

                “Hey, hey!” Puar squirmed away from her, putting his paws protectively up on top of his head. He scampered across the table top and turned to glare once he was safely on the other side. “Corny and a jerk.” He preened, licking his paw and bringing it up over his head to try and restore order to his fur. “I’d never mess with _your_ hair.”

                “Aww, I’m just trying to lighten the mood, Puar. I’m kind of nervous to meet Vegeta’s brother, you know? What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s like Nappa?” She made a face and Puar laughed.

                “I don’t know, from what Radditz says, I think he’s pretty different from the others.”

                “Radditz actually talks about Tarble?” Bulma sat forward, interested. “Vegeta clams up and goes mute whenever I try to ask about his brother.”

                “He doesn’t say a lot.” Puar shrugged and stopped grooming himself. “I get the impression that they don’t associate with him all that much.”

                “Maybe Tarble and Vegeta don’t get along very well.” Bulma sipped her coffee. “Then again, Vegeta doesn’t get along well with anybody, not even his own crew. Not even me.” She glanced at her watch and sighed, before hauling herself up and out of her chair. “Anyway, I’d better get back up to the bridge. Kitty will be waiting for his fish mush.”

                “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

                “I’d rather die.” Bulma topped up her coffee mug and, holding the foul brown goo as far from her nose as humanly possible, scuffed her way back up to the bridge.

.

                “Is there a reason you’re pacing back and forth behind my chair?” Bulma was growing sick of the rhythmic click-clack of Vegeta’s boots against the metal floor. They were alone on the bridge; her dad had made a quiet exit several minutes prior, under the pretense of checking something in the engine bay. It was a transparent excuse; Bulma knew he probably just wanted to escape the tension that happened when she and Vegeta were stressed out and in the same room together.

                “When will we arrive?” Vegeta demanded, ignoring her question as he came to a stop beside her chair and took up a rigid pose, hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder width apart. He stared straight ahead at the big viewscreen, where Planet Tech-Tech had grown quite large. Unfortunately, so had the asteroids surrounding it.

“We’ll be entering the atmosphere in about a half an hour.” Bulma tapped out a quick command sequence with her right hand as her left remained on the control bar. “That is, if someone lets me concentrate long enough to get us through this minefield.” She pushed up on it just a fraction of an inch, smoothly guiding the bulky ship between two asteroids. “It’s like trying to drive a motor-home down a go-kart track.”

Vegeta ignored what he suspected to be another of Bulma’s bizarre Earthling references. He got the gist of it even if the specifics were unclear. “Yeah, well try not to kill us before we get there.” His tail was twitching back and forth behind him, a sure sign of his agitation. Bulma resisted the urge to reach out and run her fingers over the coarse fur, knowing it would only piss him off more to be treated like a surly housecat.

“Gee, thanks for the advice.” Bulma rolled her eyes and fired the forward facing thrusters, slowing the ship’s momentum so that she could manoeuvre around another giant cluster of rock. “What’s got your bodysuit all in a twist anyway?” she asked, once they were clear. “The closer we get to Planet Tech-Tech, the moodier you get.”

“Nonsense,” Vegeta snorted, and Bulma wanted to scream aloud as he resumed the annoying pacing. Not for the first time, he reminded her of a caged predator in the zoo, pacing back and forth, restlessly imagining the day he broke free.

Was Tarble just another cage to Vegeta?

Bulma frowned and the ship juddered as an asteroid scraped its side. “Concentrate, woman!” Vegeta snapped, over the creak and groan of steel and the far-off yelps of panic from crewmates on other levels.

“I AM,” Bulma snarled back, wanting to shoot him a look but too afraid to take her eyes of the screen. At least the shock of the asteroid’s collision with their ship had stopped Vegeta’s pacing. “Though if you would like to drive, be my guest!” She waved her hand at the control panel and then swept her arm out in a wide arc to encompass the veritable minefield on the viewscreen. Vegeta glowered at her but said nothing, so with a self-satisfied smirk, Bulma turned her attention back to steering. Vegeta was a serviceable pilot, but like most of the ground crew in Frieza’s forces, he’d spent most of his travel time as a passenger. He couldn’t claim nearly half of Bulma’s depth of experience, and they both knew it.

“See that you get us to the ground in one piece,” Vegeta said, unwilling to let her have the last word. “I have fought and won far too many battles to die as a result of your incompetence.”

“Oh, I don’t need to get us to the ground,” Bulma said, sweetly, banking hard to the left, only for the pleasure of knocking her surly boyfriend off balance. His tail straightened as he shifted his weight to accommodate, but didn’t stumble, much to her disappointment. “I’ll at least get us to breathable atmosphere before I trash the ship. I’m sure you’d survive the fall.”

“Conniving wretch.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “Cranky butt,” she retorted, and the usual indignant snort was his reply. It wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined the final moments before meeting this long-estranged brother of his. She’d had visions of hand holding, of smiling reassurances from Vegeta that Tarble would love her, that she’d adore him, and they would all be one big happy family.

Who the hell was she kidding? She’d probably just end up with two Vegetas to deal with, one of whom wouldn’t even be making up for his rudeness by bedroom attention. Threesome fantasy number two had begun with learning of Vegeta’s brother, and ended with learning of Vegeta’s brother’s wife, the mysterious and much maligned Gure. Bulma wasn’t sure what to expect from the other woman, as Vegeta flatly refused to speak of her, or anything regarding his brother. The other saiyans seemed to only make fun without providing any real details.

Bulma really hoped they would be friends. In addition to her sappy, hand holding, happy family scenes, she also imagined that sisterly affection between herself and Gure might bridge the gap between Vegeta and Tarble.

Yeah right, Bulma thought as she snuck a peek at Vegeta. He’d taken the seat next to her and though he’d finally shut his gob, he’d initiated a tense staring contest with the viewscreen and was glaring so hard she was worried for the structural integrity of the ship itself.

Annoyed with herself and him, Bulma huffed out a sigh, blowing the bangs up off of her forehead. Visions of happy-family-anything with Vegeta were too farfetched to even qualify as fantasy; they were out and out madness. On Earth, under different circumstances, there might have been a chance, but out here, on the run? Never.

“Approaching planetary atmosphere,” the ship’s computer interrupted Bulma’s maudlin train of thought, its tinny voice crackling out from each speaker on the ship. “Entry estimated in five minutes.”

Bulma checked her safety straps, giving each one a healthy tug before she clamped herself in. Beside her, Vegeta buckled his own belts. Bulma flicked a switch on her control panel to engage the ship-wide intercom system. “You heard the lady,” she announced. “Everybody buckle in. Things are going to get bumpy.”

.

.

Bulma stared, open-mouthed, at the figure bounding toward them across the grass. She cocked her head, trying to judge the distance, and wondered if her depth perception had recently deserted her. She turned her gaze to look at the pack of Saiyans standing out at the end of Red Ship’s ramp, Gohan and Goku included. Then she turned back toward the figure, now standing in front of Vegeta, reaching out as though to clasp hands in greeting.

It wasn’t that there was something wrong with him. He was fully in proportion, with the spiky hair and tail characteristic of his kind. He had a handsome face, a nicely shaped body...but...a _very tiny_ , nicely shaped body. He made Vegeta look tall. Next to him, Radditz and Nappa were skyscrapers.

So that was her brother in law. Bulma frowned as she watched him, hoping a serious expression would suppress the giggle that was building up in her throat. Tarble was vibrating with excitement at seeing the others, who looked on him with a combination of strained tolerance and disdain. He’d moved from Vegeta and was now shaking hands enthusiastically with Goku and Gohan, professing wonder and excitement at the presence of two previously unknown saiyans.

“The brat is a half-breed,” Nappa was saying, and to that Tarble blinked in surprise and turned back to the boy. They were nearly the same height.

“Fascinating!” Tarble said, smiling brightly. “Gure will be terribly interested to know that interbreeding is possible. He looks so very Saiyan! Tell me, Gohan, is it? Is your mother here?” Tarble glanced toward the crowd just visible within Red Station’s hangar door, but his attention was quickly drawn back to his kin.

“The humans are very similar in appearance to us,” Vegeta cut in gruffly, as Gohan nodded. “Much weaker, of course, though even their cubs could probably best you in a challenge.”

Bulma rolled her eyes, overhearing this part of the conversation, and decided that it was time for the rest of the crew to disembark. Vegeta was a great face for the revolution, but he wasn’t exactly stellar at interpersonal relations. She didn’t want to get kicked off the planet before they had a chance to see and review whatever medical information might have travelled with baby Tarble away from doomed Vegetasei.

She needn’t have worried. Tarble laughed and grinned even wider as he saw the crowd descending the ramp. “No doubt, big brother, though I’ll have to take your word for it. I doubt I’ll be getting into any death matches with your friends.” Bulma could see Vegeta bristle at the last word and was again unsure of how to present herself. This wasn’t a typical _meet the family_ set up where she’d be introduced to the curious parents, passed from relative to relative to be questioned and scrutinized. She was meeting the semi-estranged little brother of the universe’s most emotionally closed-off man, someone who hadn’t even made it clear to _her_ what was going on.

Just what was she supposed to do? She was getting closer and closer to the end of the ramp, out in front of a pack of rag tag refugees and wishing she’d thought this part out. Tarble was at the bottom of the ramp, hand extended to take hers and she was surprised to find it rough, work hardened. He was such a cute little guy, much softer around the edges than even Gohan. Bulma watched him take a breath and pause, a surprised look coming over his face. Quizzically, he turned to look at Vegeta, who only glared, arms crossed in his typical, pissed-at-life pose. Tarble turned back to Bulma, eyes shining with pleasure, and shook her hand enthusiastically. “I’m Tarble,” he said, and she nodded dumbly.

“Bulma.”

“Bulma,” Tarble repeated her name as though trying it out, and his grin was of Goku-esque proportions. “It is very nice to meet you. Vegeta has not told me anything about you.”

“He’s, um, very private.” Bulma shrugged her shoulders and Tarble nodded, moving on to greet Krillin.

“Did he know?” Bulma hissed to Puar, who settled on her shoulder in cat form after his own greeting. “He knew. How did he know?” She walked out into the sunlight, too distracted to notice the odd, downy texture of the tall grass tickling her calves or the way the clouds seemed to shimmer in Planet Tech-Tech’s sky.

“He smelled Vegeta all over you. Didn’t you realize?”

“I had a shower! He hasn’t touched me since!”

“Sorry, I forget sometimes that human noses aren’t so strong, but I didn’t know they were that weak.” Puar shrugged his tiny shoulders. “Shower or no, you pretty much always smell like Vegeta.”

“For the love of...” Bulma muttered, and Puar laughed. To her, Vegeta’s scent was all musk and sweat, and while it appealed to her on a base level, it wasn’t exactly her idea of a great perfume.

“If it makes you feel better,” Puar added, “he carries notes of Bulma wherever he goes, too. And it’s probably not detectable to the others, especially if you haven’t noticed that I smell like Radditz.”

“You don’t. Only when I catch you coming out of your room after some hanky panky.” Bulma reached up and poked the cat in the side. Puar yelped and was about to make a retort but they both shut their mouths as Seventeen and Eighteen came to join them.

“Tarble is very small,” Seventeen said, bluntly.

“It is not so unusual, is it?” Eighteen’s question was directed at Bulma but her eyes darted to Krillin, who stood with Tien at the base of the ship’s ramp. Bulma caught the furtive glance and made a mental note to review Gero’s notes on the two androids. Then she made a another mental note to talk to Eighteen about the birds and the bees.

“Oh, you are just adorable!” Mrs. Briefs’ high voice trilled across the clearing where they’d landed, and to Bulma’s mortification she watched her mother bend down to pinch the little prince’s cheeks. “You’re like a tiny Vegeta, oh how cute!” she burbled, clapping her hands. “I’m Mrs. Briefs, but you can call me Mom, just like everybody else!” Her hands were on him again, petting his hair and once again finding his cheeks.

At this, Tarble’s eyes widened and he once again sought his brother’s face. He could not, in a million years, imagine his stoic older brother calling this woman “Mom”. In fact, he was beyond shocked to find out that his brother even associated with such a bubbling fountain of effusive good cheer.

It was time for an intervention, Bulma decided, as she watched Vegeta’s scowl deepen. “Nobody calls you Mom but me.” Bulma gently pulled her mother’s fingers from her new brother in law’s face. “This is my mother,” she added to Tarble, who actually took a step back after he’d been freed from Mrs. Briefs’ grip. Bulma sighed. Leave it to her mother to make the universe’s friendliest Saiyan uncomfortable. “This is my dad,” she pulled forth her hitherto silent father, who muttered a hello from somewhere beneath his moustache.

“Don’t forget Kitty, here,” Dr. Briefs said, with much more enthusiasm than he’d mustered for his own introduction. He reached up to pet the cat that was, as usual, clinging to his shoulder.

“Yes, this is Kitty. He bites,” Bulma warned as Tarble made to reach out and pet the little furball. She placed a hand on Tarble’s shoulder and steered him quickly away to meet the Dende and the nameks.

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Bulma rubbed her temples and smiled gratefully at Gure as the little grey alien set down a glass of water. “Thank you so much,” Bulma said as she picked up the glass and drained half of it. SiHo would have been nice after the herculean task of organizing the residents of Red Station and overseeing their introduction into Gure and Tarble’s village, but getting blind-drunk in front of her new inlaws probably wouldn’t have made for the best introduction.

“Vegeta and Tarble are set up downstairs with the computer. Vegeta is working to find the information that you came for in the disks that were sent with Tarble. Vegeta’s grasp of the language is much better than my husband’s, despite the training system that was installed in his pod.” Gure paused as she poured her own glass of water, less than half the size of the one she had given Bulma. “Tarble is very pleased to see Vegeta and the others. They visit so rarely.”

“Thank you for allowing us to come here,” Bulma said, studying the tiny creature across the table. They were in Gure and Tarble’s house and Bulma felt like an adult in a child’s playhouse, all scrunched into Gure’s tiny chairs, with her knees bent above the level of the kitchen table. She was in Tarble’s chair, the biggest of the four in the room, but she had half a foot on him and her legs were significantly longer. Still though, she imagined the poor saiyan, small as he was, must spend a lot of time ducking under low doorways and squeezing himself into small spaces. Then again he’d grown up here and was used to living larger than the local scale.

Maybe saiyans were like plants, she mused, only growing as big as their containers allowed.

                “It is no trouble.” Gure picked up her tiny pitcher and refilled Bulma’s glass of water, nearly as big as it was, and that was when Bulma realized she was drinking out of a flower vase. Gure noticed her scrutiny and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry,” she said, “but we are not used to guests. Tarble is the largest resident our village has ever had. Last time the saiyans visited, many years ago, Nappa could not even get through our doorway. They came in space pods and all three had to sleep outside as we had no beds big enough.”

                “Don’t worry, we’ll all be bunking in the ship.” Bulma smiled, amused at the idea of Nappa, trying to wedge himself through the tiny doorframes, but her amusement didn’t last long. “Regardless, I feel I need to warn you that by allowing us to stay here, you are putting yourselves in danger. Frieza’s reach is weak this far from the center of his territory, but that doesn’t mean it’s completely safe. We travelled under strict radio silence and I’m oh, say ninety eight percent sure that we didn’t lead anyone here. But there’s always a chance.”

                Bulma watched Gure’s placid little face, so hard to read, and worried. “We’d never have come if we didn’t need the information disks,” she added, guiltily.

                “We might live in relatively free space, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t know what’s going on in the rest of the universe,” Gure said, her tiny hands fisting nervously in her tunic. She was obviously much less comfortable with her guests than she let on. “We made this decision as a group; our culture is peaceful, but we believe that no one is free when any one of us is oppressed. We will offer what assistance we can. And besides,” she sighed, “Tarble really is awfully pleased to see his brother, nevermind the circumstances.

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                “Fuck!” Vegeta snarled as his hands slipped on the tiny keypad again, mashing seven buttons at once with his index finger alone. “You live in the land of the gnomes! Eject the damn disk,” he demanded of his brother, who quickly danced forward to do as he was told. “We’re taking it onboard Red, where there are keyboards designed for real saiyan hands.”

                “Umm, okay,” Tarble nodded quickly, trying to please his brother, “but I’m not sure you have anything that will be able to read it. This computer had to be designed specially, out of the wreckage of my pod. It’s based off of saiyan technology.” Tarble snatched the disk as it slid slowly from its drive and scurried to catch up to Vegeta, who was already stomping away.

                Vegeta stopped, glared, and stalked back toward the unit. He yanked the plug from the back of it, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and turned back the way he had come. “Bulma!” he hollered, taking the miniature stairs three at a time as he made his way from the basement workspace. He burst through the kitchen door, startling poor Gure, who was unused to dealing with obnoxious saiyans. “You need to hook this up to our systems. Immediately.” The computer was plonked down on the table with a thump, and shoved across toward her.

                Bulma sighed at Vegeta’s tone, but pulled the machine toward herself. She tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned forward to examine the connectors on the back.   “Hmm, I think I can make that work.” The piece was a bit of a Frankenstein’s Monster, constructed from other machines, if the wear and differences in materials were any clue. “Hey, is that saiyan?” She wiped a bit of dust away from a scorched piece, noting that the symbols imprinted there looked remarkably similar to what she’d seen in Gohan’s language notebook.

                “Our technologists built this computer with salvaged parts from Tarble’s space pod. It was heavily damaged on impact,” Gure explained, “but they were able to piece it together well enough to run the disks that were encased in the pod.”

                “My parents sent me in a specialized pod, outfitted with saiyan technology rather than that of the empire. I suppose they wanted me to know where I came from as much as possible.” Tarble smiled shyly, and beside him Vegeta bristled and clutched the backrest of a tiny chair so hard that Bulma was worried he might snap it.

                “How nice for you,” he sneered, and the happy glow faded from Tarble’s cheeks as he realized his mistake. “They sent me off into the pits of hell without so much as a _have a nice day_.” Roughly, he grabbed up the computer again and stormed out, ducking just in time to avoid smacking his head against the doorframe. “Come on. Now!”

                Bulma got up, biting her tongue against the snappy reply to his bossiness that was just itching to get out. Vegeta was still unpredictable to her in many ways, but she knew him and his issues well enough to know that a sarcastic “ _yes, your majesty_ ” would not go over well at the moment. She chafed at the indignity, but it wasn’t worth the fight.

                “Oh dear,” Tarble muttered. “Do you think I’ve made him angry?”

                “I’m going to take a wild leap on this one and say yes.” Bulma gulped the last of her water and set her vase/glass on the table. She straightened her dress and fluffed her hair. “Give us a bit of time, will you? Don’t want this reunion to end with him killing his only living relative, do we?” She felt mean, tacking on that second part, but knew it needed to be said. Vegeta’s bitterness was misdirected, yes, but not unfounded. Unfair as it was, Tarble would need to learn to step a little more carefully around his big brother. “Do you have any specs I might find useful?”

                “Um, I could grab you all the documentation we have.” Gure led Bulma back down the stairs to a series of filing cabinets standing against one wall. “The computer was created shortly after Tarble’s landing here; I was hardly more than an egg. I know enough about it to use it, but have had little cause to bother. My grasp of the saiyan language is very, very basic. I have done some studying of the modules provided on the discs in order to give Tarble someone to converse with, but they are designed to teach the infant brain. Adult brains are much less flexible.”

                Bulma smiled as she watched Gure dig though the cabinets, all the while babbling about language acquisition and neural plasticity. It might not be her subject of choice, but it seemed she’d found something of a kindred spirit. “You and I are going to be good friends,” she said as Gure leafed quickly through a worn file, quickly scribbling some numbers on a piece of paper.

                “I think so too.” Gure smiled as she handed over the paper. “These documents are written in our language so they won’t be much good to you, but here are some of the important numbers in Standard; energy requirements and such. I’ll get the rest of this translated for you as soon as possible.” She tapped the file folder with tiny fingers and tucked it under her arm.

                “Thanks.” Bulma led the way back up the stairs. Back in the kitchen, Tarble sheepishly handed her a small, rectangular disk.

                “Um, Vegeta didn’t take this when he left.”

                “Thanks.” Bulma stuffed the disk into her pocket, along with the stats that Gure had translated. “And try not to worry too much. He’ll calm down.” _Maybe_ , she thought, but didn’t say. “Anyway, it looks like it’s starting to get dark here, so maybe we’ll try again tomorrow. It will take me some time to fashion us a plug and it will take Gure some time to get those notes translated anyway.”

                Bulma said her goodbyes and crossed the small yard to the road, smiling and trying to appear friendly to all the little tech-techs who crossed her path. She and her shipmates were such a big group, and with so many volatile personalities among them, she felt she had to try very hard to make a good impression. It was an uphill battle.

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                Seventeen and Eighteen sat side by side on the grass, watching the sun go down. Neither had ever been planetside before; the closest they’d ever come was Harbour Colony’s fake outdoor market. Even in their limited experience, they could both tell that this was much better.

                Eighteen kicked off her shoes and wiggled her bare toes in the grass, marvelling at the soft, cool texture. The thin blades tickled her feet and the barest hint of a smile graced her thin lips. Beside her, Seventeen was slowly undoing the laces of his own high top sneakers. He’d rolled up his pants and there were imprints in his pale skin from where his legs had rested on the ground. A smear of green decorated his calf. Eighteen reached over and swiped her finger across it, frowning when it did not come off.

                “There is grass blood on your leg,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

                “Plants do not have blood.” Seventeen licked his finger and rubbed the grass stain away, as he’d seen Mrs. Briefs do while working in the conservatory. “Plants have sap.”

                “Oh,” Eighteen said, and rested her arms on her drawn-up knees. “Why did I not know that?”

                “I do not know. I did not know until Mrs. Briefs referred to it as such.” Seventeen slipped off his shoes and socks and laid his legs down again. He plucked a blade from the ground and rolled it between his fingers.

                “Odd. I wonder what else I do not know.” Eighteen bent forward, bracing her bodyweight as she considered this. She knew, from whatever information Dr. Gero had implanted in her brain, that plants were different from animals. Both were alive; they grew and respired, though animals moved and had consciousness, while plants did not. Computers, even those that moved, were not alive; they were not conscious. She and her brothers were treated like human animals by their shipmates, but she did not understand the difference. Sixteen was a sentient computer; he did not breathe, grow, or age, but he had thoughts. Was Sixteen alive?

                Eighteen considered her own body, each cell a tiny microcomputer so that she mimicked human biology to perfection. She was flesh and blood but created instead of born. She was conscious, but could not tell where programming ended and sentience began. Bulma would know, but she was very busy, and Eighteen did not want to bother her.  The mother was meeting her new family, the tiny saiyan called Tarble, who was Vegeta’s brother, and the tinier tech-tech called Gure, who was Tarble’s wife.

                Vegeta was very different from his brother, Eighteen thought as she felt the prince’s power level spike in the distance. Beside her, Seventeen peered in the direction of the village as well. Krillin had been teaching the twins to sense ki, though it was slow going. Both were having difficulties with anything other than sudden jumps; detecting a level ki or a small one had eluded them both thus far.

                A few moments after the spike, Vegeta came storming down the path toward the ship. He carried a blocky machine beneath one arm, and wore a thunderous expression on his face. Neither android attempted to make conversation, and Vegeta ignored them both in turn. They did not think to be offended; it was the usual state of things with the saiyan prince. They had begun to take note of social graces, and had both learned that Vegeta had few to spare. Most were reserved for Bulma, and observed only if one happened to stumble upon the couple when they thought they were alone.

                Eighteen had never given much thought to Vegeta before; beyond his fighting prowess and leadership role, he was simply the mother’s...what? The saiyans called them mates, Krillin called them boyfriend and girlfriend, though Goku and Chichi were husband and wife. So were Doctor and Mrs. Briefs. Eighteen wondered about the distinction. So far as she understood, both terms involved enjoying physical intimacy with each other, and couples of both distinctions seemed to live together. Both of the married couples had children. Perhaps that was the distinction? Once a man was able to impregnate a female, they were married?

                Eighteen frowned. She had so many questions, and every moment there were more. No matter how many answers she gained, the list kept growing and growing.

                Bulma came walking down the path at that moment, looking much more serene than Vegeta had. She appeared deep in thought and both androids could hear the slight humming sound she made, which usually accompanied intense concentration.

                “Hello Mother,” they said in unison, startling her. She gasped and put a hand to her heart, as though to steady the quickened organ.

                “Hi guys. Yeesh, sorry, you startled me. I didn’t even notice you sitting here.” Bulma laughed self-consciously and swiped her hair behind her ears. On the ground, Eighteen did the same. “What’s up?”

                “We are simply observing the setting sun,” Seventeen said.

                “We have never seen a setting sun,” Eighteen added.

                “Pretty magnificent, isn’t it?” Bulma smiled and turned away from the twins to appreciate the view that they were seeing. Tech-Tech’s sun was huge in the sky; it was closer than Earth’s had been but was actually smaller and burned much colder, so the tiny planet did not bake. “I wish I could stay and watch, but Vegeta’s probably about to blow his top in there.” She turned back to face the twins and hitched her thumb in the direction of the ship.

                Eighteen watched Bulma roll her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Eighteen did not understand how the mother could be irritated and amused by Vegeta at the same time, but knew that she was.

                “Well, see you later,” Bulma said, and with a little wave she was walking down the path once more. There was a spring in her step and one hand reached up to twirl a strand of her hair.

                “Do you think Vegeta and Bulma are sad that they have not yet managed to reproduce?” Seventeen asked his sister, after the mother was out of earshot. “They seem to engage in intercourse very often, with little result.”

Eighteen blinked in surprise and looked sidelong at her brother. He was still watching the sunset, seemingly oblivious to the sense of shock he had created in his sister. Eighteen squirmed and pressed her thighs together as a familiar tightness formed in her core. From discussions she had overheard, and comments made that the other women thought she would not understand, Eighteen had been given the impression that there was more to it that simple procreation, and she was curious.

Did Seventeen not feel the same? Eighteen could not comprehend this; she and her twin were supposed to be the same. Was he defective in some way, Eighteen wondered, or was she?

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Bulma found Vegeta huffing and puffing inside her lab, pacing back and forth between the piles of notes and half-finished projects. “What took you so long?” he snapped, the second the door shut behind her.

                “You were in such a hurry that you left without this.” Bulma pulled the shiny disk from the pocket of her dress and waved it beneath his nose. She blinked innocently, batting the sweeping fan of her eyelashes above pouted lips. “You know, going off prematurely never used to be a problem for you.”

                Vegeta growled out something she was pretty sure was a saiyan curse word, judging by the frequency and tone of its use. An image of his hands, on Gure’s chair, white knuckled in a battle between strength and restraint, flashed through her mind and she remembered that she was going to try and be nice.

                “So,” she dropped the ditzy act and set to examining the back of the machine, “Tarble really gets your goat, huh?”

                “My...goat?” Vegeta sputtered, baffled and put off by another of her earthlingisms. He knew what a goat was – Bulma had described it to him as resembling a sybian quarnak but with only two eyes, which he thought was just plain weird. What it had to do with his brother, however, Vegeta had no idea.

                “It means he irritates you. He upsets you.” Bulma’s voice was soothing, though the smile on her face was impish and Vegeta knew at once that she’d chosen her words deliberately to throw him off. He narrowed his eyes at her, and uttered his own favourite human phrase.

                “No shit.” 

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That’s it for today, folks. Hopefully I won’t go so long without updating again, but in the meantime, have you checked out the “We’re Just Saiyan” group on Google Plus yet? It’s fairly new but growing every day, AND the group’s creators do DBZ and B/V related podcasts with guest authors. I was on one! Check them out on youtube, or through the google plus community.

 

 

 


	49. Chapter 49

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: This chapter…is a silly chapter.

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. _Last time: Bulma and Puar got a bit serious for a change, discussing the difficulties of having relationships with saiyans. The team finally made it to Planet Tech-Tech, where they met Tarble and Gure, and Bulma began the task of trying to get Tarble’s half-saiyan, half-tech-tech computer to run compatibly with Red Station’s systems._

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                Eighteen stood still and examined her reflection in the mirror. She looked at the shape of her body, straight and narrow, and shifted her weight to the right so that her hip was jutting out. She set her right hand atop the hip bone, allowing herself to adjust to the impractical stance. She was off balance and taxing her body unevenly. Frowning, she took a step forward with her left leg, careful to watch the swing of her hip as she planted her foot and allowed her weight to shift again. Another step, and the right hip returned to prominence, but something about the move wasn’t quite what she wanted it to be.

                She felt curiously unnatural, and the sensation had nothing to do with her test-tube origins.

                Eighteen turned and stalked back to the far side of her bedroom, where she took up position across from the full-length mirror again. She stood in her customary stance, back ramrod straight, shoulders level, and arms hanging down at rest along her sides. Then she tried emulating Bulma’s stance once more – that ergonomic nightmare of shifted hips and unevenly distributed weight.

                Perhaps it was her lack of curves, Eighteen thought as she placed her hand on her waist. Bulma’s hand typically rested a little lower, right where her hips flared out, but on Eighteen’s boyish figure, the stance looked awkward. With her hand a little higher, Eighteen created the illusion of an hourglass. But she couldn’t have her hands on her waist all the time, could she? She shook her head at the thought, one sharp jolt of the chin, and relaxed into her own, more naturally rigid posture as she looked about the room.

                Her eyes settled on a thin, black belt, carelessly tossed over the back of a chair, and she snatched it up and cinched it high, just below her ribcage. There, that was a bit better. It didn’t quite go with her outfit but it would do for the moment, she thought, and she’d just have to dress with more care in the future.

                Satisfied, Eighteen posed in front of the mirror again and walked forward with purposefully swinging hips. When she hit the mirror, she turned and walked back, then posed herself for another round.

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                Bulma yawned and knocked back the last of the coffee from her mug, forgetting that it had been easily fifteen minutes since her last lukewarm sip. The cold, filmy brew slithered its way down her throat and she grimaced and smacked her lips against the feel of it. “Uck,” she grunted and set the mug back down with a clonk and another yawn. She wondered who she could call and bully into delivering a fresh cup of coffee. Maybe a whole new pot, she amended, looking at the mess spread across the desk before her. She’d been up fiddling with Tarble’s computer for most of the night, unaccustomed as she was to Planet Tech-Tech’s local time. She was used to odd hours, but landing planetside in a time zone wildly incongruent with what the ship’s residents had been running on was always especially disconcerting. The fall of dark on Planet Tech-Tech had felt to Bulma and the others like midafternoon and the middle of the night had felt like bedtime. As a consequence, it was almost noon, local time, and many of Red’s crew members were still snoring away. Bulma would still have been tucked up cozily in her bed, if not for the impatient saiyan she shared it with.

                Oh well, she was nearly done anyway. She’d fashioned a plug with the right voltage that would connect the computer into Red Station’s systems. All she had to do was set permissions to allow the unknown computer access to a video screen. Bulma crossed her fingers and hoped that her systems would be able to recognize their boxy new friend.

                “Well, time to give you a shot,” Bulma said, patting Tarble’s computer affectionately. She picked up the connector cable she’d slaved over and plugged the newly formed end into the back of the pseudo-saiyan machine before running the other end around the back and into one of the ports on her own system. Bulma held her breath and pushed the power button, confident but still sending up a prayer to the computer gods that she’d done everything right. A few seconds went by, the little light on the front came on, and she heard disc whirring into action, like music to her ears. “Whew,” she let the air from her lungs in a relieved whoosh. Her own computer sensed the foreign drive and Bulma grinned as the access permissions dialogue box sprang up on the screen. She spun her chair back into place, plopping down into it in a move less than graceful, and cracked her knuckles before setting long fingers to the keyboard. A few minutes of clacking keys later, a pleasant chime heralded her success and the screen filled with the strange, stark characters she’s seen scrawled in Gohan’s notebooks.

                “I am a genius,” she said aloud to herself as she pulled up the intercom and selected the gravity chamber’s feed. She really wanted to play and poke around in the last archives of saiyan history, but the language barrier was an insurmountable issue. “Vegeta,” she said once the intercom had become active, “some brilliant person has fixed your tiny-keyboard problem for you. Get your butt to my lab. And bring coffee!”

                The Vegeta that showed up a few minutes later was not of the caffeine-bearing variety, and though Bulma had never actually expected it, she was disappointed nonetheless. Vegeta was impervious to the sulky glare she shot him; his mind was in turmoil enough to have ruined his mood and he had no patience for any problems but his own. Bulma saw the tense set of his shoulders and rolled her eyes. It was time to make the best of a bad situation.

                “Ta da!” Bulma spread her arms and brandished jazz hands she hadn’t used since being forced by her mother to join a peppy dance group at the age of twelve. It had been an effort to feminize her tomboyish daughter by introducing her to girls her own age, and it had not gone well.

                Bulma narrowed her eyes as Vegeta swept past her and dropped his royal posterior right in her chair. He sat rigidly, his fists clenched on the desk before him, and Bulma felt the first stirrings of unease tingling in her fingertips. She watched his eyes scan the screen, flickering back and forth over this connection with his past, and realized for the first time that Vegeta might desire privacy. She shifted from foot to foot in a parody of a child’s pee-dance, her curiosity at war with the combined forces of caffeine addiction and tact.

                Vegeta did not notice her slip out, engrossed as he was in the words on the computer screen. It was nothing profound, simply a menu of the disk’s contents, but merely seeing it, this record of the people that had once been his, was jarring. It was years since he’d last accessed the information that was Tarble’s inheritance, and it had not gotten any easier. As a young man, he’d looked on with something akin to hope, though too tinged by bitterness to truly be called such. Some small part of his mind yearned to find something different, a secret code from the king, meant only for the younger Vegeta’s eyes.

                He was let down every time, and with every disappointment that bright piece of himself became smaller and smaller, burying itself deeper away from consciousness.

                By saiyan standards Vegeta was still young, would be in his prime for a few more decades, at least, but every time he looked at the documents, he felt like an old man pining for years gone by. The childish hopes were gone now, and even the sense of connection was fading as Vegeta became more and more aware that these words had likely not even come from his father, but from some unknown technical worker. Sending Tarble off with the discs had been the equivalent of abandoning a baby with a set of encyclopaedias and expecting it to grow up with an understanding of its birth culture.

                That was not completely true.

                Vegeta’s fingers twitched and the mouse hovered over the first file on the screen. Without entirely intending to, he snarled aloud. After the sound had left him, he was not sure if it had signalled despair or defiance. He clicked the file and prepared himself as it queued up.

                The video quality was poor and the camera shook every few seconds, jolted with the planet itself as Vegetasei was bombarded with bombs and ki blasts, but when his parents’ faces came into view, Vegeta could see them in his mind, clear as day. They were frowning into the camera, silent and stoic as though the castle was not crumbling around them.

                Vegeta knew the following scene like he knew his own ki. This was the proof of Frieza’s betrayal; on his first visit to planet Tech-Tech he’d watched it over and over, till his eyes were so dry that he could not blink. Then he’d met Nappa and Radditz for a spar and beat the living hell out of them before watching the video a few more times.

                “Tarble,” King Vegeta spoke in Saiyan, obviously trusting that the pod’s education systems had done their job and imparted his son with at least a rudimentary understanding of the language. “If you are watching this recording, it means Frieza has succeeded and we are dead.”

                Vegeta shut the video off with a quick shake of his head, as though he could shed the images like a beast shaking away water. He did not want to watch any more. Resolutely, he dove into the web of files to find what he was looking for.               

                He searched for the relevant medical files first. Bulma and Sixteen would not be able to use them in their current form, but once Vegeta found them, he would pass them off to Nappa or Radditz for translation into Standard. Once that was done, Vegeta would be free to look for the information he was after. A feeling something like dread curled in his stomach; he needed the truth, but he didn’t particularly want to see it, either.

                Gohan’s voice, small and trembling, sprang unbidden into Vegeta’s mind. _“He flickered,_ ” the child had said, wide eyed and cautious but sure in his belief. Vegeta remembered the surges of power, knew that his subjects and every damn warrior on this cursed ship had felt them all too, and knew that the theory had credence.

                Fucking Kakarrot. Wasting away by the day, and yet somehow, some way, he seemed to have managed to tap into the power of the legendary. Irritation coursed through Vegeta’s veins, causing his skin to prickle as each hair on his body stood to attention. His tail puffed out to three times its normal size and he allowed it to unfurl from its customary position around his waist to twist and flick behind his chair.

                It didn’t make sense. Kakarrot was a weakling, a third class runt whose saiyan instincts had been obliterated along with his early memories by a simple bonk to the head. His power level, respectable by the broad standards of a universe that held beings like Bulma and Gure, was paltry in saiyan terms. It did not even come close to approaching what Vegeta’s had been the first time his body had attempted to cross the threshold into Super Saiyan.

                And yet Gohan was a reliable soldier, with no reason to make up such a wild story. The kid was not lying, that much was for sure. Though Vegeta desperately wanted to doubt what he had been told, he knew Gohan to be possessed of strong senses and sharp wits. If Gohan said that his father had flickered, then Kakarrot had almost certainly done so.

                Abruptly, Vegeta shot out of his chair with enough force to send it rolling backward, where it knocked into a piled tower of boxes with a muted thud. He stood, chest heaving and fingers twitching, as he fought with the sudden rage that had exploded like a million fireworks behind his eyes. A vein in his forehead bulged with the effort and his left eye twitched as he thought of the third class’ stupid, grinning face. Kakarrot, despite his blood, was not even a true saiyan; he had no business approaching the transformation, no _right_ to that which was most revered by his people.

                Vegeta closed his eyes and pulled a few breaths into his nostrils, drawing the air deep down into the very bottoms of his lungs and holding it there until stars swam in his field of vision. He let loose a great, frustrated sigh and resumed normal breathing as a very tiny bit of the tension in his body drained away.

                It was better than nothing.

                Vegeta walked over to the wayward wheelie chair, which sat dejectedly in the shadow of the piled boxes like a rejected puppy. He grabbed it by the backrest and dragged it across the floor, one jammed wheel squeaking in protest of his rough treatment. Vegeta felt the little scrap of tension sneaking back into his muscles at the grating sound. He ground his teeth and sat resolutely down in front of the computer again. It had gone into standby and he jiggled the mouse to clear the screensaver, a ridiculous animation of shooting stars, as though Bulma could not simply look out a porthole and see the same thing most of the time.

                Vegeta resumed his search through the system’s files, pulling everything he could find that might be relevant to Kakarrot’s peculiar presentation of the Wasting. The data was extensive in scope, and Vegeta was relieved that he would not be the one stuck working with Sixteen to weed out and translate applicable information.

                “Pain in the ass,” Vegeta muttered aloud as the list of tagged files grew longer and longer. Though he loathed the idea of pulling them from their training, both Nappa and Radditz would have to be drafted to this monumental task. He could pull Tarble, too, but Vegeta wasn’t sure Gohan’s saiyan skills would be quite up to the task of translating some of the complicated medical material. He would leave it to Nappa to make that call. It was a shame that the infant language training Kakarrot must have received in his pod had obviously been knocked out of his head with the rest of his saiyan-ness; the third-class dolt wouldn’t even be able to help them.

                Vegeta shook his head in disgust and tagged another file with a relevant-sounding name.

.

.

                Krillin let his breath out slowly as he shifted his foot just so, and turned his upper body. His left arm swung out in an exquisitely controlled arc, his wrist rotating in time so that when his arm was finally straight out in front of him, his palm faced the sky. He splayed his fingers out and curled them back in, forming a fist that he drew back toward his body before lifting his left foot in a slow motion kick. He felt his core tighten and his hip flexor strained as he lifted the leg higher and higher, body leaning to the right to accommodate the slow change in balance.

                Krillin paused as he heard footsteps crunching along the nearby gravel path. Paired up with the complete absence of ki, he knew that it must be one of the androids. Cracking open an eye, Krillin peered down the hill, through a sparse stand of trees, to see Eighteen walking down the path.

                Well...if one could rightly call what she was doing _walking_.

                Eighteen passed beneath the hill and Krillin crept down into the trees to watch her. There was something wrong with the way her body was moving, and a sudden flash of terror rode like a wave over him. Was it possible that there was some Ginyu-like creature on this planet? Was it even possible to inhabit an android’s body? Ginyu had failed when it came to trying to possess Dr. Gero, but the old scientist had been entirely mechanical aside from the pulsing brain hidden beneath his hat. Eighteen and her twin straddled a blurry line between machine and man.

                “Calm down, Krillin,” the diminutive warrior murmured to himself as he peered around a peeling, papery tree trunk at Eighteen’s back. Her upper body was rigid as usual, with shoulders held stiffly back, neck straight and proud. It was her bottom half that was concerning, Krillin realized as he crept closer to try and analyze what was so off-putting. Her hips swung violently from side to side with each step, and each time she planted a foot, it looked as though she would fall over. The whole effect was disconcerting, like watching a life-sized marionette with an iron rod for a spine.

                Krillin raced parallel to the path, floating through the trees with ease and keeping his ki as suppressed as he could. The androids were still learning to sense power levels, and for the first time Krillin was pleased that they were so bad at it. Eighteen hadn’t noticed him yet and he intended to keep it that way for a little longer. He knew he would be fine as long as his ki did not make any sudden jumps.

                Once he’d gotten a few hundred feet ahead of Eighteen, Krillin slowed and found a new hiding place. He watched her come around the corner with her hands planted high on her waist. He frowned as he watched her feet pick out the awkward, unnatural moves, her legs reminiscent of a horse trained to dance.

                Krillin squinted through the trees as she came closer and closer. He focused on her face, visible now. Her features were smooth but for a small furrow between her lowered eyebrows, which for an android signalled intense concentration.

                Would a body snatcher not have learned to walk first before attempting to go about in public?

                Krillin took a deep breath and stepped out onto the path. Eighteen stopped moving and her face smoothed into its typical porcelain perfection as she looked at him. “Krillin,” she said, and her body resumed its normal perfect posture and gait for a few paces before she huffed a small breath, stopped and replaced her hands on her waist.

                Eighteen stepped forward, swinging her rear end as far out to one side as she could manage without falling over. Krillin watched in puzzlement as she repeated the move on her other leg, back and forth in the worst parody of feminine appeal that he had ever seen.

                “Um...hi Eighteen,” Krillin said, scratching the back of his head as she came to a triumphant stop before him. “What are you doing?”

                “I am going to the village,” Eighteen said, and Krillin noticed that her hands were still planted firmly below her ribcage.

                “No, I mean...um,” Krillin floundered for a second before he remembered that there was almost nothing in the world he could say that would offend the taciturn woman before him. “Uh, you’re walking... _different_ than normal.”

                “Yes. I have been studying how to walk in a more womanly manner.”

                “Oh...” Krillin tried to keep a neutral face. If he laughed at her, she would want to know why, and then he’d have to tell her she looked ridiculous, waddling about like a landed albatross. “Why?”

                Eighteen looked at Krillin for a long moment, plainly unsure of how to answer this question. “I am attempting to emulate the mannerisms and movements of those around me,” she said, finally. She removed her hands from the tight, cinching hold they had at her waist, and ran her palms over her slim hips. “Like Bulma. But I am finding it difficult. I am not built the same way.”

                Krillin couldn’t help the dopey smile that spread across his face. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are,” he said, before he could stop himself. A normal human woman would probably have blushed and fawned, but not Eighteen.

                “Oh,” she said, and stared at him.

                “I mean, uh, oh geez.” Krillin flushed and jammed his fidgeting hands into his pockets. “Women, all people actually, are built all kinds of ways.”

                “Like you are very short?” Eighteen asked, and Krillin could have cried.

                “Yep,” he said, mustering false cheer. “Exactly like that.”

                “Hmm,” Eighteen hummed, and when she started walking again, it was with her usual stickman gait. She looked unhappy about it.

                “You know…um,” Krillin hurried to her side, “if you want to walk more…more like Bulma, I could show you how.” His face was completely red and he couldn’t believe what he was offering to do. Eighteen didn’t seem to think it was weird at all.

                “Show me.”

                “Okay, c’mere,” Krillin said, warming to the idea. He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto a flat stretch of grass beside the gravel path. “One second.” He darted toward the trees, broke off a branch, and used it to gouge a long, straight line in the earth. “You have to walk along this, putting your feet one in front of the other so they’re always on the line. Go ahead and try.”

                Eighteen studied the line for a moment, as though assessing an enemy, before stepping up to one end. She did as she was told, but instead of adopting the natural sway of a catwalk model’s hips, hers remained still and stiff as she concentrated on the placement of her feet. “It’s not working,” she told him, glaring as she reached the end of the line.

                “That’s because you’re not allowing your body to flow smoothly. Think about how you move when you fight; your torso doesn’t stay rigid just because you’re kicking instead of punching. You have to let the movement affect your whole body. Watch me.” Krillin stepped up to the line himself, took long steps, and sashayed like a supermodel down the line. A foot from the end, a piercing wolf whistle cut through the air. He jumped and turned, horrified, to see Radditz, with Puar clinging to his shoulder, both grinning like idiots.

                “Hoo mama, shake that thing down my way!” Radditz called as he came closer. “Carry on, sweet cheeks, we would hate to disturb you.”

                “What are you _doing_?” Puar asked, unable to contain his giggles as Radditz moved further up the path toward the impromptu catwalk.

                “Krillin is teaching me to walk like a woman,” Eighteen said, matter of fact, completely unaware of what Radditz and Puar found so amusing. “He is a good teacher.”

                “Is he ever!” Radditz winked at Krillin and gave a little shake of his own hips.

                “And where did Krillin learn to walk like a woman?” Puar laughed, swatting Radditz gently on the side of the head.

                “Oh god,” Krillin moaned, smacking his palm to his forehead and dragging it downward over his face and chin. How did he get himself into these dumb situations? “My girlfriend…ex girlfriend,” he amended, glancing sideways at Eighteen, “was a model. Well, trying to be. She was more of a cheerleader at the time…” he trailed off as Radditz goggled disbelievingly.

                “Nice!” the big saiyan held out his hand for a fist bump, which Krillin half-heartedly returned.

                “Yeah, she was ok,” Krillin rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment and looked at the ground. He thought of Marron, with her bubbly personality and killer curves, and smiled. She’d been a great girl. Dumb as a sack of bricks, but kind and sweet, and in love with him. Breaking up with her had been one of his greatest regrets. In the years since Earth’s destruction, Krillin had often thought that if only they’d still been together, she might have been on Capsule 1 along with the rest of his friends.

Looking at Eighteen made him feel a guilty sort of relief that Marron was gone.

                “Krillin!” Eighteen snapped, and he whirled away from Radditz and Puar to face her. She was standing with her arms crossed, looking as irritated as Krillin had ever seen her…which still didn’t appear to be all that much. She whipped an arm out and pointed at the line. “Show me again.”

                “Oh no,” Krillin dared a glance at his bemused audience and felt the heat flare up from his cheeks into the tops of his ears, “do I have to?”

                “C’mon little dude.” Radditz gave Krillin a ‘friendly’ shove toward the line, which sent him stumbling several feet. “You don’t disappoint a piece like that, man.”

                Krillin clenched his teeth and his fists, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. This was just another battle, and he was no coward; it had been a long time since he had run from a fight. “Okay!” he yelled, clapping his hands together as though about to enter into a spar. “Prepare to be wowed!” His hands came apart in a wide arc and settled on his hips. One ankle flexed, his heel coming up off the ground as his knee bent and his pelvis shifted to the side. He stepped forward, heel, toe, heel toe, little gi-clad butt swishing from side to side. Radditz howled and stuck his tongue out in mock-pant. When Krillin hit the end of the line, he spun on one foot and executed a deep, showy bow.

                “I have to admit, that’s impressive. It took me ages to learn to walk like that,” Puar said, clapping his little paws together. “It’s hard to get that hip thing down.”

                “You never walk like that for me,” Radditz muttered, at the same time as Eighteen was asking, “How did you master it?”

                At this, Puar blushed beneath his fur and glanced sideways at Radditz. While Radditz could be dealt with easily in private, Eighteen was staring expectantly at him as she waited for an answer. “I had to learn,” his shrill voice was higher in embarrassment, for shape-shifting. Yamcha...uh, he used to help.” Puar covered his furry little face with both front paws and squeaked out the rest of his answer without looking at anyone. “He used to put his hands on my hips and guide me along.”

                “I’d kill him if he wasn’t already dead,” Radditz growled. They’d discussed Yamcha before, and the idea never sat well with Radditz, no matter how many times Puar insisted that there had never been anything more than friendship there.

                “He was...well, let’s just say he liked to watch women move. He knew how they were supposed to look.” Puar winced as Radditz cracked his knuckles loudly, threatening the ghost that hung between them.

                Krillin laughed. “Yeah, that was our Yamcha. God, if I had a zenni for every time Bulma caught him staring at some girl...used to drive her absolutely bonkers.”

                “I think that was half the reason he did it.” Puar grinned and sighed happily as he remembered his old friend. “She was such a terrible flirt back in those days and they were always trying to one-up each other.”

                “Was? Still is,” Krillin said without malice, knowing that Bulma would be shameless till the day she died. She might not like to admit it, but Bulma was more like her mother than she realized.

                “Krillin,” Eighteen commanded, disrupting the reminiscence, “come and help me.” She pointed at her own hips and waited, expectantly.

                “Wh...what?” The flush that covered Krillin’s face spread down to his neck and chest, blooming in his panic to become a shade of red heretofore unknown in the universe. He could not do that.

                “I’ll do it!” Raddiz volunteered, earning himself a swipe to the side of the head from his kitty boyfriend.

                “NO!” Krillin gasped in a strangled voice, and though it didn’t seem possible, the skin of his face became even hotter, a burning hue that was beginning to verge on purple. Radditz grinned and Krillin realized he’d walked right into it.

                “Krillin, there is something wrong with your face.” Eighteen cocked her head and frowned. “Are you ill? Do you have a fever?”

                “N...no. No, I’m fine.” Krillin squeezed his eyes shut and waved frantically at his cheeks for a few awkward seconds, trying to cool them down. He drew in a deep breath and mustered up every relaxation technique he’d ever learned in his many years at the monastery. When he felt a little calmer and a few degrees cooler, he opened his eyes, swallowed his reservations, and made his way toward Eighteen. His legs felt stiff and heavy, as though the air around him had suddenly been replaced with water.

“Come on Radditz, get a move on,” Puar said, nudging his saiyan ride into motion. He smiled as Krillin shot him a grateful look. “You were called back to the ship twenty minutes ago. Vegeta will have your head.”

                Eighteen waited patiently for Krillin to settle his hands on her hips. She gave no outward sign of understanding his awkwardness, and for that he was grateful. She was such an innocent, Krillin thought, as his palms burned against her jeans. He felt like a Roshi-grade pervert.

                It wasn’t like he’d only dated hardened, world-wise women. Marron had been as innocent as they came, with her “the sun is always shining somewhere” attitude and gullible nature, but she’d understood men and women. Eighteen was a completely different animal. She didn’t have the same bubbly, childlike quality that had defined Marron, but there was something so fundamentally guileless about Eighteen, something pure that he was wary of sullying.

                But oh god, did he ever want to.

                Krillin felt as though his palms were going to melt right through Eighteen’s jeans, but he stared resolutely at the small of her back and willed his eyes not to slide lower. “Okay, ready,” he said, and Eighteen took off like a racehorse from the line, Krillin clinging to her backside for dear life. “Whoa! Hold up!” he shouted, hooking his fingers into her belt loops and tugging her to a stop. She did so, abruptly, and Krillin’s whole body tingled as he smacked into her from behind. “L...Let’s go a little slower, okay? And uh...you don’t need to swing so far from side to side. Try again.”

               

.

.

                Bulma shoved the door of the common room open with her shoulder, yelping as she nearly lost control of the dishes stacked precariously in her hands. In a flash, two saiyans were on their feet and to the rescue – not to save her, but the snacks she carried.

                “Damn, Bulma, that’s enough to give a guy a heart attack,” Radditz grumbled, relieving her of one large tray.

                “Yes Radditz, I’m fine. Thank you for caring,” Bulma grumbled as Nappa took the other. He grunted, but she wasn’t quite fluent in Nappa-ese and couldn’t tell if it was in thanks, acknowledgement, apology, or dismissal. Frankly, she didn’t care. “So how are the translations coming?” Bulma asked, stepping inside the door and making room for Gure to follow. Tarble smiled at his wife from the other side of the room, where he shared a couch with Gohan. After a few hours spent alone in Bulma’s lab, Vegeta had emerged with an enormous stack of paper printouts, all requiring translation. He’d then disappeared promptly back inside in order to continue with his own research.

                “It’s going okay,” Gohan said as he hopped off the couch and stretched his back out, waiting for a turn at the trays of food.

                “It’s boring as fuck,” Radditz added flippantly, around a mouthful of cheese. “Heart problems or no, I’d trade places with Kakarott right now if I could. Lucky bugger can’t read any of this.”

                “I can hardly read any of this,” Gohan said, anxious and frustrated. Bulma noticed that even as he waited for his turn to eat, he still clutched a piece of paper tightly in his fist, obviously reluctant to stop working. Bulma understood completely; Goku’s fate might depend on what information she and Sixteen could unearth from the pile, and they couldn’t even begin to look until a reasonable amount had been translated from Saiyan into Standard. Gohan, never having had the benefit of the saiyans’ in-pod language training programs, was the least fluent in the group. That, combined with his personal proximity to the patient, meant he was probably feeling the most pressure.

                “I’m sure you guys will make loads of progress once you’ve got some food into you.” Bulma turned to Gure, who was still standing hesitantly in the doorway, and gestured her forward. Eyes wide, Gure darted up to the table with her stack of plates, set them down, and practically jumped back out of the way, as though she expected the saiyans to rush the table.

                Reasonable expectation, actually.

                “It’s coming along,” Tarble said, kindly. “Gohan has been doing some of the basic work and flagging things for further translation. The medical terminology makes this more difficult than it would otherwise be.”

                Gohan offered the tiny prince a smile of appreciation, and Bulma could see that despite the others’ misgivings, Gohan was beginning to like Tarble very much. His soft, eager-to-please demeanor made him seem much more human than saiyan, like Goku.  

                “Well, Sixteen and I appreciate it all,” Bulma said. “I’m certain that we’ll find something helpful before long. Anyway, we’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the snacks.”

                “They seem surprisingly docile, compared to previous visits,” Gure said, once they were out the door and she could be sure that she and Bulma were out of saiyan earshot. “You seem to have a good influence.”

                “Ha!” Bulma laughed. “Yeah right. That in there, that’s all Vegeta’s doing. Last time I was in charge of them, swear words got melted into the wall of the gravity room and Goku nearly drove a nail through his own foot. They tolerate me,” she said, good-naturedly, “because they’re too obedient not to.”

                “I think you probably don’t give yourself enough credit,” Gure responded, but didn’t say any more on the subject. “So may I still see your lab, or will we be disturbing Vegeta too much?”

                “Both, probably.” Bulma grinned and gestured for Gure to follow her. “I’ve found that _his highness_ needs the occasional feather-ruffling. It’s good for him. But,” she added, “maybe let’s stop by the kitchen and bring him food too. It can’t hurt, and maybe it will draw him away from the computer long enough that I might actually be able to show you something.”

                Gure blinked incredulously and trailed along. She did not know Vegeta very well, but enough so that Bulma’s attitude was a constant shock. Tarble had grown up with a romanticized view of his mysterious older brother, and upon finally meeting him, Gure had mixed feelings about Prince Vegeta of the Late Saiyan Empire. He’d been cold and rude, harder than the rocks beneath their feet. The tech-techs had not known how to deal with him, but over his sparing visits, Gure had learned how to tread around her imperious brother in law. Here he was though, changed again. He did not let his own brother hug him, yet this loud, gregarious, insolent woman had managed to breach his armour.

                Secretly, Gure treasured the thought.

                It was not that she did not like Vegeta. She was not overfond of him, it was true, but active dislike was something that tech-techs simply didn’t do. And Vegeta was family, even if he was self-important, violent, aggressive, and distant. She understood that he cared about his brother’s fate, even if that caring was tinged heavily by bitterness and resentment, and beyond that, she understood that caring about _anybody_ was difficult for someone with Vegeta’s background. She thought that he tried, in his own way, and that even though his rejection had left Tarble hurt and frustrated, that rejection had also likely saved her husband’s life a thousand times over. Gure loved Tarble; she had ever since she could remember, and if Vegeta one day decided to take his little brother away from Planet Tech-Tech...well, Gure knew the chances she would ever see her husband alive again were slim.

                Gure didn’t quite understand her own feelings for Vegeta; he was arrogant and rude, and she’d heard stories about him that chilled the blood in her veins, but he hadn’t taken Tarble away, and she was grateful to him for that.

Bulma, Gure decided as she followed the fearless human woman into the laboratory, she loved unequivocally.

                “Vegeta,” Bulma called out as Gure tiptoed along in her wake, “hope you’re wearing pants! Gure’s with me.”

                A half-amused, half-irritated snort came from the distance, buried somewhere behind a pile of boxes and something lumpy beneath a bright blue dust-sheet. Bulma skirted the mess easily, pointing out obstacles and potential hazards to Gure as they went deeper into the lab.

                “We brought food,” Bulma set down a tray of snacks that they’d put together on a quick detour to the kitchens. “Take a break.”

                Vegeta glared first at her, and then at the tray of food that she’d deliberately set so far away. “I am busy,” he said, getting up. “I will eat,” he crossed the room, picked up the tray, and pointedly returned to the computer desk with it, “but as usual, you underestimate my ability to perform two tasks simultaneously. We are not all as dimwitted as you.”

.

.

                Eighteen was feeling antsy. She didn’t know it, purely because she didn’t have the word to associate with the combination of a restless mind and the vague, directionless anxiety that she was experiencing

                She didn’t like it. She knew that much.

                It was something to do with Krillin. Twenty four hours later, she could still feel the pressure of his hands on her hips, rocking them side to side as she moved. He’d been so warm, hot breath coming out hitched and ragged against her back. Her spine tingled in remembrance and somewhere in her abdomen she felt a tightening that she’d come to associate with him.

                Eighteen put her hands on her hips, pressing down as though to capture the warmth of Krillin’s hands, and exhaled loudly through her nose. Her nipples were hard. She didn’t know what that meant. Her breasts ached strangely – not quite in pain – and she couldn’t decide whether or not she liked the feeling of her lace bra scratching against them. She didn’t know what she wanted.

                Eighteen knew about sex. Unlike Sixteen, both she and her twin were capable of procreation, and unlike Seventeen, Eighteen was definitely interested in the subject. She understood the mechanics of her body and the way in which it would need to interact with a compatible male body in order to produce a child. But Eighteen _didn’t want_ a child. She just wanted the other part. Or something.

                Eighteen sat on her bed and tapped one foot impatiently against the floor. She desperately wanted to talk to the mother, but Bulma had been _so_ busy lately, there hadn’t really been a chance. Even now, she was somewhere on the ship with Gure. The two sisters-in-law were remarkably similar in their interests and while Gure was eager to see and discuss Bulma’s projects, Bulma was equally eager to show them off.

                Eighteen stood abruptly. If she waited for Bulma to have a spare moment in her schedule, she’d be waiting forever. She didn’t mind if Gure was around when she asked Bulma about sex. Gure had a husband, too. She would understand. Eighteen stood still for a moment, concentrating hard on finding the piddling energy signal of her mother. It took her several minutes, and yet she was pleased with her progress. For some reason, she and her brother were having a very difficult time mastering the technique. For the other fighters on the ship, sensing energy seemed like second nature; they had to work to ignore all the little frissons of ki going on around them. After hours and hours of training and practice, Eighteen still had to concentrate on picking up a ki signal, and only huge spikes invaded her senses without conscious effort. But progress was progress, and Krillin assured her she would get it eventually.

                If Krillin said it, it had to be true.

.

                “Mother,” Eighteen burst into the lab, and Bulma looked up in surprise. It had been ages since one of the twins had called her _“Mother”_ to her face. “I must speak with you.”

                “Um…okay,” Bulma said, as she put down the latest model of her ki-absorbing armour plates. She’d been showing Gure her most recent modifications. “Pull up a box,” she added, for the lack of chairs. She’d never had so much company on Earth. “Gure, you’ve met Eighteen, right?”

                “Briefly. It will be good to get to know you better.” The tech-tech smiled and stuck out her tiny hand. Eighteen looked at it blankly for a second, before she remembered that she was supposed to shake.

                “Eighteen is one of Dr. Gero’s organic androids,” Bulma said, when it became clear that Eighteen was not going to help the introduction along. “She and Seventeen seem to consider me their mother, even though I didn’t really have a hand in their creation.”

                “Remarkable,” Gure said, watching as the android shoved a big crate across the floor with no apparent effort. “No one could tell the difference, looking at her.”

                “So, what’s up?” Bulma asked once Eighteen was sitting.

                “I need to know about sex,” the android said, in her typical deadpan voice, and Bulma watched as Gure’s little mouth dropped wide open and her eyes widened to the size of tea saucers.

                “Um…Perhaps I should go,” the tech-tech made to hop off her chair, but was stopped by Eighteen’s hand on her shoulder.

                “No, stop. You stay. There is a large size differential between you and your husband, your input may be useful. I need to know how that works.”

                “Yeah,” Bulma looked sideways at poor Gure, whose little cheeks were rapidly darkening to the colour of storm clouds, “how _does_ that work?”

                “Oh dear, um, well, oh,” Gure stuttered and squirmed, and Bulma laughed aloud at her obvious discomfort.

                “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything,” Bulma put a hand on her sister in law’s tiny shoulder and squeezed, smiling kindly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. Eighteen,” she turned to the android, “it’s a bit different when the guy is so much bigger than the girl, I’m sure. You, err, you know how it all works, right?” Bulma made an awkward hand motion, forming a circle with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, and sticking her right forefinger through it. She was the worst mom.

                “Yes.”

                “Good,” Bulma breathed a sigh of relief. “So…Krillin, right?” Bulma hazarded a guess, and Eighteen nodded. Bulma resisted the urge to whistle aloud. The little guy had game. “I’m sure you understand that Krillin being smaller than you is a much easier problem to deal with than if he were much bigger. I mean, it’s not like he won’t fit.”

                “Tarble fits,” Gure squeaked, still purple. “It’s just…a tight fit.”

                “Nice.” Bulma snorted, and Gure clamped her lips together tightly and nodded once, curtly, as though to say _yes, it is._ “So have you and Krillin…” Bulma trailed off, with meaningfully raised eyebrows.

                “Have we what?” Eighteen asked.

                “You know…” Bulma waggled her eyebrows some more but Eighteen only stared, waiting for an explanation. “Have you come close to having sex?” she asked, giving up on the pretense of modesty.

                “No. Krillin is not aware that I have been thinking about it. I do not understand the mores and etiquette surrounding this topic. It is highly confusing.”

                “Oh boy, you’ve got that right. There are no rules, Eighteen. And Krillin would follow you to the ends of the universe and back.”

                “There is no end of the universe,” Eighteen interrupted, and it was Gure’s turn to giggle at Bulma.

                “It’s an expression, Eighteen. It means he thinks you’re great.”

                “So you are saying he will want to have sex with me?”

                “Um…yes.” Bulma wondered if her own parents had been as at a loss for words when, at sixteen, she’d dragged home a shiftless desert bandit. “You should probably talk to him about that, first.”

                “This has been informative.” Eighteen stood quickly. “Thank you,” she said, and then without waiting for a response, spun on her heel and left the laboratory.

                “She’s…interesting,” Gure said a moment later, when they’d heard the whoosh of the lab’s automatic door sliding shut.

                “She sure is,” Bulma agreed. “You’d think I’d know what to do with her, but I have no idea half the time.”

                “Well,” Gure grinned as widely as her tiny mouth would let her, “it appears that she is now Krillin’s problem.”

                “Poor Krillin, he won’t know what hit him.” Bulma sighed and tapped her fingers against the worktable. She wondered if she should be concerned, but Krillin was a good guy, and she’d seen him around Eighteen; he was head over heels. He wouldn’t hurt her. Now Eighteen on the other hand, might just pulverize Krillin’s poor little heart into mush without even realizing it.

                “Should we warn him?” Gure asked, and to Bulma it sounded like she was only half-kidding.

                “I don’t think that will help. Eighteen is pretty stubborn,” Bulma said, then paused a moment, thinking. “Can I ask you a question? Did you just wake up one day and find out you were Tarble’s property? I mean, not like I’m Vegeta’s because I’m not. But some days I feel like one minute we were flirting and the next we were basically married. And I thought it was just him, Vegeta’s an intense guy, but I’m watching Radditz and Puar do the same thing and I’m curious. Even Goku has gotten weird and territorial over Chichi, and she basically had to trick him into marriage.” She paused. “I’m totally babbling. Sorry.”

                “I don’t understand much Saiyan, but from my experience and what Tarble has told me is contained in the disks, I have come to believe that saiyans become attached to their mates through a process very much like imprinting,” Gure said, after a moment’s thought.

                “Imprinting?” Bulma repeated, incredulously. “You mean like how a baby duck figures out who its mom is?”

                “I do not know what a duck is,” Gure laughed, “but yes, I assume we are talking about the same thing. This is not proven, mind, and I have only my own experience and your anecdotes to base my theory on. For many animals, the first creature they see is ingrained in the mind as “mother”, but I have no idea what process causes the imprinting in Saiyans. Tarble is tame compared to the others, but I think intensity in feeling is part of their biology. Perhaps if you think of it that way, you won’t be so discomfited by the intensity of Vegeta’s bond to you.”

                “Wait a minute,” Bulma eyed Gure as though she were absolutely insane. “Did you just tell me to think of Vegeta like a baby animal?” She laughed. “You have MET him, right?”

                “Maybe a vicious baby animal, in Vegeta’s case. A baby trillok,” Gure amended, referencing a creature like a badger on steroids, with horned armour to boot. It was widely held to be one of the orneriest, most dangerous animals in this corner of the universe.

                “Oh god. That sounds about right. My boyfriend, the baby trillok. I’m almost sorry I asked.” Bulma leaned back in her chair, causing the backrest to squeak loudly, and dragged a hand over her face. Gure worried, for a moment, that she had offended the human woman, but Bulma’s laughter soon proved otherwise. “What’s Tarble?”

                “Judging by the way you phrased it, he’s probably the baby duck.”

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Thanks for reading.

 


	50. Chapter 50

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes:

**At the time I first introduced them, Gure’s people had no official species or planet name. Trust me, I searched high and low. I’ve been calling them greylings from planet Grey. I’ve recently learned that they are called tech-techs and are from planet Tech-Tech. You probably don’t care all that much, but I’ve edited past chapters to conform to this and will henceforth be referring to them as such.**

_Last Time: Krillin taught 18 how to walk like a girl, Vegeta did some research and got mad about stuff, and Bulma and Gure bonded over SCIENCE!_

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                Yul closed the door to the dingy little hole in the wall that she’d shared with Sabriya and Mink for the last time. The bag at her feet contained everything she owned, and the petty thief who called himself her landlord was in for a surprise when he came to check the place out.  She and the other two girls had come in to a furnished “suite” but Yul had torn the place apart and pawned everything that wasn’t nailed down. She’d sold most of her possessions as well, and everything the other two had left behind. They were dead, they wouldn’t need it. Besides, Mink’s collection of exotic dildos alone had – to one very sad, sick client – been worth enough to buy Yul a ticket on the next long-haul transport.

                She was getting the fuck off of Harbour Colony.

                Frieza’s men were thick on the ground now, and nasty sons of bitches. Yul could handle a bit of pain for the right price, but they were cheap beggars too, and no way was she letting herself get smacked around for anything less than prime credit. A girl had to have standards.

                There was a wad of cash in her bag, carefully hidden within the jumble of clothing, and another between her middle pair of breasts. The balance on her credit chip was not astronomical, but it would be enough to get by for a little while. She’d found a secret cache of jewelry hidden in Sabriya’s mattress, which had given her finances a needed boost. Most of it had gone straight to the pawnshop, but she still carried a few pieces that could be sold or traded later.

                Hell, maybe she’d keep them and find some backwater planet somewhere and set herself up as a high class courtesan. The jewels certainly looked like they’d belonged to someone worth a lot more a lay than Sabriya had been.

                Yul fought the cheap, stiff lock one last time, and then shoved her keys back under the door. The landlord would come along eventually, wondering why the rent hadn’t been transferred to his account, and he’d find them there. It was the least she could do.

                Feeling oddly light, Yul shouldered her heavy bag and set off toward the nearest transport station. From there she’d catch a tram to the lower decks, where the ships docked. She checked her pocket for what must have been the thousandth time that morning, just to assure herself that yes, she had her ticket. She’d managed to secure a berth in a shared cabin; it might not have sounded like much to some, but to Yul, the extra splurge seemed like the height of luxury. Last time she’d been off-colony, she’d been thirteen years old, crammed into a standing-room-only cargo bay for thirty-six hours straight, surrounded by strangers.

                It was no wonder she hadn’t left Harbour Colony since then; the experience was one she hadn’t wanted to repeat, even if she could have scraped enough cash together to buy a ticket. But this time she’d have her own bed, in a women-only cabin, with her own private locker to stash her stuff. No need to worry about pickpockets, no need to stand constant vigil against the clumsy attentions of men who thought they could get a little something for nothing. And after that, she’d be free to start again.

                Yul wasn’t happy that Mink and Sabriya were dead, but she wasn’t so sad about it, after all.

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                Sixteen sat quietly in his chair, feeling oddly tense. His eyebrows bent low and the barest hint of a frown graced his lips as he concentrated on the page in front of him. Across the table, Chichi sat on the edge of her chair, body rigid as though braced for battle. Goku was beside her, jumpy and nervous, though he dutifully clasped his wife’s hand. Her iron grip was likely the only thing that held him there.

“It’s not good news, is it?” Chichi’s pale skin looked almost sickly in the bright, harsh light of the infirmary, and Sixteen worried for her. He could not change the data on the page before him, much as he might want to.

                “No, I’m afraid it isn’t,” Bulma said, and her voice was so much gentler, so much more comforting, than Sixteen could ever have managed.   

                “I knew it. There’s more needles, aren’t there?” Goku asked, looking suspiciously about the room as though someone might jump out of any corner and jab him. His grip tightened on Chichi’s hand.

                “We have isolated the problem and think we have discovered the source.” Sixteen said, as Chichi calmed her jittery husband. “It appears to be a viral infection of the cardiac muscle.”

                “Goku is suffering from something called myocarditis.” Bulma handed a thin sheaf of stapled papers to Chichi, and turned back to a bewildered looking Goku. “The tissue that makes up your heart is swollen, which disrupts the transmission of the electrical signals that regulate your heartbeat. The swelling is also causing vasoconstriction – it’s interfering with your heart’s ability to move the blood through your body.”

                “Well, now you know what it is, you can fix it, right?” Goku asked, grinning, though his typical optimism seemed tainted. “There’s nothing you can’t fix, Bulma.”

                “Judging by the condition of your heart, you have been carrying this virus with you for some time now. Years, probably. The damage is…significant.” Sixteen spoke as delicately as he knew how. Beside him, Bulma seemed to shrink in her chair. “At this point, there is nothing we can do to repair it.”

                “We can manage it, for the moment,” Bulma blurted suddenly, trying to soften the blow. It still hadn’t really sunk in yet. Goku had always been strong as an ox. Despite everything that he’d gone through since his arrival on Red, the idea that he was so ill seemed preposterous. “We think we can prevent further damage while we try to figure out a cure for the virus itself. Sixteen and I have worked out a regimen of vasodilators and steroids that we think will work on you, though it might be a bit of trial and error until we get the dosages just right. We’ll have to make a supply run soon but Sixteen has a small quantity in stock so we can get you started right away.”

                “How did this happen?” Chichi asked, bewildered as she tried to take in the information. “Goku has never been sick a day in his life. Not even the sniffles! All of a sudden you’re telling me he…his heart is failing?”

                “The immune system of a healthy saiyan is unusually strong,” Sixteen replied in his textbook voice. “We have determined from the translated medical files that severe malnutrition in an adult saiyan can alter the body’s defense mechanisms drastically. They call this the wasting; among other things, Goku’s immune system shut down in order to preserve more critical life functions. We have concluded that Goku probably picked up this virus in the slaver camps.”

                “From what you and Piccolo have told us, Goku,” Bulma picked up when Sixteen stopped speaking, “you were drastically underfed. Sleep deprivation, dehydration, even a lack of proper exercise…” She broke off and took a deep breath to try to calm her shaking hands and rising voice. “The files in Tarble’s computer tell us that all of those are potential contributing factors.” Bulma stopped abruptly, not really sure why she was still talking. What more was there to say?

                “But he’ll get better, right?” Chichi asked, and Bulma’s heart broke to look at her friend’s stricken look. Chichi had only just gotten Goku back. After three excruciatingly long years apart, they were finally putting their life back together. Chichi had even been talking about maybe trying for another baby, once the turmoil with Frieza was over. It wasn’t fair.

                “We do not know,” Sixteen said, bluntly. “The first step is to minimize further damage to Goku’s heart. This we can do. Once his condition is stable, we will begin the process of trying to rid his body of the virus. After that, we expect to see some improvement, but it is impossible to tell at this point if full function can ever be regained. The damage is significant.”

                “Can’t I just go in the regen tank?” Goku asked.

                “Believe it or not, we thought of that. To get any long term benefits, you’d basically have to live in there.” Bulma sighed and rubbed at her eyes. She was tired – exhausted, actually. She’d lost track of how many hours she and Sixteen had spent poring over the translated medical reports. “Going in after your last attack helped reduce the inflammation in your tissues, but it was a band-aid at best. Regen tanks can heal wounds, but they can’t kill viruses or reverse the process of scarification.” Bulma paused, considered her words, tried to find a way to simplify the complex condition they were dealing with. “Part of the problem with your heart is that there’s so much scar tissue built up already. If this were an external problem, we could cut away the scar tissue, pop you in there, and the affected area would be good as new. But we can’t exactly go cutting up your heart. And even if we could, the virus would still be active in your body.”

                “Damn,” Goku said.

                Damn, indeed. “We’re going to figure it out, Goku,” Bulma insisted. She reached over and took his free hand, the one Chichi didn’t have in a death grip, and gave it a squeeze.

                “I know you will, Bulma,” Goku responded with his beautiful, innocent smile, and Bulma felt panic bubble in her chest. He was trusting her to take care of him, just like he’d trusted her all those years ago, when she’d swooped down out of nowhere to pluck him from his forest home and the only life he’d ever known.

                It hadn’t been a good idea then, but she sure as hell hoped she’d do a better job this time. There were no dragonballs, no miracles that would fix her mistakes and save the world again.

                Bulma could see Chichi watching her, and realized too late that she was too tired to pay attention to what her own face was doing while she entertained negative thoughts. She’d been too focused on Goku, who was essentially blind to social cues. “We’ll figure it out,” Bulma said again, but this time more firmly, to Chichi.

                “Of course,” Chichi nodded. She inhaled deeply and shut her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again they were clear and resigned. Chichi’s life had never been an easy one; this was just another punch to the gut. She’d catch her breath, and keep on fighting. “Well,” she said briskly, “sitting around won’t do anything. What do we need to do to keep this under control?”

                “Medication,” Bulma said, gathering herself. She pushed another piece of paper across the desk. “Here is the outline we drew up, though naturally we’ll be tweaking it as we go, depending on how your body reacts, Goku. Sixteen will prepare what he has available, but we’ll need to send someone out on a supply run soon, if we can’t source all of the necessary ingredients from the Tech-Techs.”

                “You will need to limit your physical activity,” Sixteen added. “I will work with you in the coming days to design a plan of moderate exercise that will keep you active without unnecessarily taxing your systems. 

                “The key word is moderate,” Bulma added. “That means no marathon spars, and for now, no gravity room.”

                “But-“

“No buts. Your heart is working hard enough as is. I suspect we’ll be able to okay you for up to ten times Earth gravity, but only after we’ve had the chance to see how your body reacts to the medication regimen.”

                Goku slumped in his chair like a petulant child, but nodded along as Bulma and Sixteen continued to talk about all the new rules he’d have to follow. Chichi asked questions, and Goku barely registered the responses. It wasn’t fair. He could feel himself falling further and further behind the other saiyans. Even his own son had to go easy on him.

                He was happy for Gohan, proud to see his boy had grown so strong. But it was bittersweet, a feeling that Goku had never experienced before Earth’s invasion, and had rapidly come to know in his time on Red Station. Before Earth’s destruction, life had been simple. There was good and bad, happy and sad. He’d never really felt conflicted about anything, never had to look too far beyond the surface of a problem or think too deeply about his own behaviour. But now… The slaver camp had taken that all away, replaced it with a bone-deep ache and a strange, broken rage in his empty stomach.

He’d mistakenly assumed that things would go back to normal on Red Station. It was better, he was happy, but his naïve trust in the universe was shattered, and for the first time in his life, Goku saw things in shades of grey.

Gohan was so strong, that was good. But Goku’s own weakness in comparison was bad. Two sides of the same coin, that he didn’t know how to reconcile. His feelings were all mixed up in one another, and his pride was stained with jealousy.

Goku had fully expected his son to surpass him one day. Even as a timid young child, cowed by his mother’s insistence on scholarly pursuits, Gohan had carried the potential. Goku recalled their sneaky training sessions, and his joy at seeing his son master the fluid movement of his first kata. He’d always known that Gohan would grow stronger. After a life of fighting, getting tougher, beating enemies, Goku would reach his peak and know it, and Gohan would keep leaping while Goky looked on, proud . That was the way it was meant to be.

This was different, completely unexpected and all wrong. Goku was not accustomed to being weak.

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                “So, do you think I’ll ever live that down?” Krillin asked, as he watched Nappa hurl Piccolo into a wall. “Like, I mean, she’ll still think of me as a man, right?” He was trying to sound casual about it, but couldn’t help the anxiety creeping into his voice. Showing off his catwalk skills had either been a stroke of brilliance, or the proverbial killer of lady-boners everywhere.

                “Nah, you’ll be fine, little dude,” Radditz bared his teeth in that wolfish way that passed for a grin among saiyans. They were sitting beside each other, catching their breath after a short bout on the training mats. “She totally wants you. And hey, some chicks get off on a little role play, you know? Lets them indulge in those naughty co-ed fantasies. You know, girl’s dorm pillow fight an’ all that.”

                “Eighteen has never been a college girl,” Krillin pointed out. “I’m not sure she even knows what a co-ed is.” Sexual experimentation between barely-legal women was a universal male fantasy, it seemed.

                “All the more reason to indulge her fantasies,” Radditz replied, totally missing the point. He was silent a moment as they watched Piccolo rebound and drive a fist into Nappa’s gut.  “She seemed to like the girly walk. I say go with it, you know, put on some fishnets and a pair of panties. Get some of them spiky heeled, _fuck-me_ type shoes, and see where that gets you.”

                Krillin turned beet red, as usual. He should have known better than to talk to Radditz. “I said I wanted her to think of me as a MAN,” he spluttered. “How would putting on women’s underpants help the case?” he demanded, ripping his attention from the spar on the mats to look at the big saiyan.

                Radditz turned, locked eyes with the little earthling and said, as though he felt sorry for Krillin, “You’re missing out, man.” Krillin was beginning to realize he’d made a big mistake. “A pair of thick, toned thighs in tights, leading up to a big, hard dick straining all wet and hot against a lil’ pair of pink panties.” Radditz licked his lower lip and then bit down, drawing it into his mouth with a low sound like pure sex. It was like someone had sprayed concentrated male pheromones right in Krillin’s face. He scooted back an inch or two as he watched the saiyan’s nostrils flare.

                “You’re a weird guy, Radditz,” Krillin said, but it didn’t seem to register in the other man’s brain if the glassy eyes and faraway look were any clue.

                “Yeah, with like, some frilly bits on ‘em. But so tiny that they hardly hold anything in,” Radditz continued as though Krillin hadn’t even spoken. “Like, maybe just the balls, and the dick is hanging out the side, all rock hard and veiny.” He paused, unabashedly adjusted the growing bulge in his miniscule black workout shorts, and groaned. “I have to go find Puar. Bye.”

                “Have, uh, fun I guess.” Krillin waved weakly, and tried not to think about which one of them would be putting on the stockings. Radditz’s retreating back disappeared behind the doors to the training hall, and Krillin turned back to watch the fight, half heartedly. He’d been unable to think about Eighteen without feeling a fat rush of embarrassment since that hip-swaying fiasco, and since he thought about Eighteen approximately one thousand and forty two times per day, he was walking around in a constant state of agitated shame.

                Eighteen was obviously preoccupied with the masculine/feminine dynamic, if she was so concerned about learning to walk “like a girl”. So then what had Krillin done, to his own image in her mind, by being the one to show her? He groaned and rubbed a hand over his bald head. Some women would think he was cute and fun; that was the act of a guy who was comfortable in his own skin. Krillin knew his appeal on Earth had been all charm – a streak of self-depreciating humour with a backbone of confidence in himself and who he was, that had always worked with the sort of friendly, bubbly girls he liked. Eighteen, however, was the exact opposite of every single chick he’d ever dated back home, and every moment spent trying to figure out her thoughts was driving him a step closer to madness.

                Krillin heaved himself up from the floor and did a quick stretch to combat the ache that was settling in his muscles. He was so distracted, he didn’t think more exercise would do any good. What he needed was to find a nice, quiet place to empty his mind and meditate for a while. Maybe wank in the showers first. He turned toward the locker rooms, not paying attention, and stumbled back as his face bounced off a pair of soft, small breasts. Oh god.

                Eighteen flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes and watched Krillin trip over his own feet, nearly fall, catch himself, and then fall anyway. He sprawled on the floor at her shoes, and she stared down at him, wordlessly, with the most oddly intense look he’d ever seen on her face. It was like she either wanted to kill him or…or… He felt his dick twitch to life and thanked his lucky stars for the loose fit of his training pants.

                “I need you to come with me,” Eighteen said, reaching down to haul him up to his feet. She kept hold of his hand and dragged him, stumbling, along behind her toward the door.

                “Where are we going?” Krillin asked, and she stopped for a moment, as though not sure of the answer.

                “My room,” Eighteen replied after a thoughtful pause, and Krillin felt the blood rushing downward from his head.

                Don’t get too excited _,_ he told himself, it’s not what you’re thinking. This is Eighteen, she wouldn’t. Would she? His cocked jumped within the confines of his underwear and his cheeks felt hot with the force of his imagination. Eighteen let go of him only as they climbed the ladders between decks, reaching down to give him a hand he did not need as he followed her up, thus claiming his increasingly sweaty grip again.

                Her room, when they reached it, was surprisingly messy. There were clothes and shoes everywhere, and every surface was covered with the detritus of her life. An array of cosmetics and hair products at the vanity, a snarl of belts and haphazard stack of books on the desk. Her dresser was home to a wrench and two mismatched screws, a book of matches, three empty cups with dried-out cocoa inside and a pile of magazine clippings.

                Eighteen shoved a tangle of clean laundry off of her bed and onto the floor, as Krillin looked nervously around. He leafed through the clippings, and they all seemed to be of female body parts. A plump pair of lips, a set of bronzy legs that went on forever with bits and pieces of the advertising taglines still attached.

                “Take off your clothes,” Eighteen said, and Krillin’s fingers spasmed, clenching then springing open beyond his control, so that half the clippings scattered at his feet and the other half crumpled between his slick palms.

                “W…what?” he managed, turning around just in time to watch Eighteen lift her t-shirt over her head. She dropped it on the floor and stood before him in her jeans and bra, and Krillin’s knees trembled with the force of keeping his body up. He had seen this woman naked, and yet somehow the glimpse of pink nipples through a lace bra was unspeakably erotic. “What are you doing?” he asked, as she popped the button at her waist and pulled down the zipper. Her panties matched the bra, and he could see a small, neat thatch of blonde hair through them as she pushed the jeans down low on her hips.

                “I’m taking off my clothes.”

                “I can see that,” Krillin said, and boy, could he. She’d stepped out of the jeans and kicked them aside, and now stood frowning at him.

                “Do you not want to have sex with me?” Eighteen asked, and Krillin reached one hand across his body to pinch the skin of his other forearm, hard. Nope, not dreaming.

                “Oh, is that what we’re doing?” he asked, dazedly. His head felt light and he began to worry that he might pass out.

                “Yes.”

                “Okay,” Krillin found that his fingers were already fumbling with the tight knot of his belt. They felt thick and clumsy, and with each passing second that the knot did not spring loose he began to have increasingly panicky visions that she might get bored and put her pants back on. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, that he should maybe ask _why_ they were suddenly about to have sex, but then she was in front of him, small breasts in his face, lily-white hands pushing his out of the way so that she could deal with the belt herself. He gulped and surreptitiously pinched his thigh through the fabric of his pants. Still not dreaming.

                The knot gave beneath Eighteen’s deft fingers, and the loose, light fabric of his pants billowed and opened like flower petals as they fell into a bloom around his ankles.

And-then-oh-god-Eighteen-was-pulling-his-underwear-down-and-his-brain-exploded.

He had the presence of mind to whip his shirt off (Marron had once told him that there is nothing less sexy than a man naked only from the waist down) and step out of the puddle of fabric, but Great Kami’s Ghost, he still had his shoes on. Hurriedly, Krillin kicked off the cloth slip-ons, and then Eighteen did something he would remember till his dying days.

                She picked him up by the armpits. And. She. Threw. Him. On. The. Bed.

                Krillin sailed through the air and landed with a muffled “oof” on the plush mattress. His head bounced against Eighteen’s mound of pillows and he tried to process his shock at being sprawled out like the innocent heroine of a bodice ripper novel. Eighteen stalked across the room, ditching her bra as she moved, like the quintessential lusty pirate about to ravage him. By the time she reached the bed, she’d pushed her panties down her legs and stepped clean out of them. Naked as the day he’d first met her.

                “Eighteen…” Krillin gulped, scrabbling backwards on the bed as Eighteen crawled atop him. “Eighteen we-oh God,” he gasped, a sort of half-strangled, half hissing sound as she straddled him, grasped his cock, and sheathed it inside her body all in the span of seconds. Krillin lay staring up at her, rigid with the shock of it. He watched her wince, briefly, before she pushed herself up again, slowly, slowly, and plunging back down on him. It would have been perfect, but for the frown of concentration on her face. Her eyes were fixed in the middle distance, instead of on his face or body, and he began to wonder if he was part of the act, or just the object that enabled it.

                Krillin finally gained his wits and grabbed her hips before she tried it again. “Wait, wait,” he tugged her down. She might not have been getting much out of the robotic raise-and-sit she was doing, but Krillin was exercising a masterful amount of self-control. The fact that he hadn’t blown his load already was nothing short of a miracle.

                “What is the matter? Am I doing it wrong? I did much research, but it doesn’t feel as I was led to believe it would.”

                “Oh god,” Krillin groaned, trying to imagine what in the universe she meant by research. He panted and squirmed underneath her, as she gave an experimental flex of her pelvic muscles around him. “No, you’re, uh, you’ve pretty much got it bang on. I just…if you keep doing that, I’m going to finish before you’ve hardly started.” Eighteen didn’t say anything, but she cocked her head to the side in that way she had, and waited for Krillin to continue speaking. “Are you hurt? Did that...hurt?” His fingers splayed over her soft skin, inching back around the curve of her bottom and squeezing, gently. He’d never been with a virgin before, wasn’t breaking a hymen supposed to hurt? Did androids even have hymens?

                “I am fine. I was expecting worse.”

                “Oh. Well…good. Can I…touch…you?” It seemed a silly question, given that he was buried up to his pelvis in her, but it felt necessary. She nodded, and with shaky hands, Krillin reached up to cup her small breasts. He pinched one nipple, gently, between his thumb and forefinger, and Eighteen drew in a quick breath. “Does that feel good?” Krillin asked, and she nodded again. He wanted to make a quip about how whatever research she’d done, it hadn’t been enough, but his brain had pretty much melted and his wit had deserted him. Better to show her, instead. “Lean back a little, open up your thighs.” Whose voice was that? Surely that shaky, husky thing wasn’t coming from his own throat? Krillin licked his fingers and reached between her legs. He could see where their bodies met as he parted her flesh to touch the sensitive bead of flesh there.

                Eighteen gasped outright, her muscles clamping tight around Krillin. He did it again, and her whole body shuddered a little as the sensation rocketed through her veins. There we go, Krillin thought, falling into a rhythm. His other hand moved to support her back as Eighteen started to rock her hips.

Much better.

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Krillin shot awake, the rumpled sheets falling to his waist as he sat up in bed, panicking. “Condom,” he said, more to himself than to the dozing android at his side. One brief look at her soft, pale breast peeking out from beneath the covers and he was hard again. “Shit,” he hissed, looking down at his dick, but it was unrepentant.

Beside him, Eighteen stirred. She rolled to face him, and Krillin felt guilt bubble up from his stomach.

“We didn’t use a condom,” he blurted, and when she simply blinked at him, he knew he was done for. “This is all my fault,” he said, despite the fact that she’d given him little choice in the matter. “Of course you wouldn’t know. I mean, of course it was your first time, and I’m the experienced one, and I should have said something, or stopped you. But I was so…I wanted…but now…I mean, you’re just so…” He heaved a sigh. “But it’s done, and I’ll take responsibility if it turns out that way. I mean, I’d marry you. I’d love to marry you, who wouldn’t, and sorry you’d be kind of stuck with me, but I love kids. I really do, I’ll be a great dad. And I’m not the strongest, or the most handsome, but I’m a nice guy, I’ll treat you like a queen, I swear it.”

                Eighteen opened her mouth, but Krillin put a finger to her lips. “Don’t say anything, I know this is probably the last thing you wanted. I get it, but I want you to know I’ll be there every step of the way. For you and the baby, I would do anything, I really would. And I know this is a really bad time to bring a kid into the world, with Frieza after us, but Vegeta’s strong, I can see it. Any day now he’ll be ready to take that bastard on. And you know, I’m not sure what kind of universe it’ll be after Vegeta’s in charge, but we’ll figure that out when the time comes. But I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m excited, Eighteen.” He grabbed both of her hands in his, and knelt on the bed beside her. “I want us to have this baby.”

                “What baby?” she asked.

                “Um…I mean…” Krillin realized that he’d been babbling. In a single breath, he’d invented an entire life story for them. “You know, we didn’t use a condom. And sometimes when men and women make love, the man’s-“

                “I know how procreation works, Krillin,” Eighteen interrupted.

                “Right, of course you do! So I guess what I was trying to say is that if you’re pregnant-“

                “I’m not.”

                “Well of course you might not be but we won’t know probably for a while…” Krillin trailed off as Eighteen frowned at him.

                “No, Krillin, I understand the mechanics of a human pregnancy. Probably in greater detail than you, as a matter of fact. But I assure you that you have not impregnated my womb. I cannot become pregnant unless I allow my body to do so.”

                “Huh?”

                “I cannot get pregnant by accident.”

                “Oh. Well.” Krillin sagged back onto the bed, suddenly drained.

                “Did you want me to?”

                “No! I mean, not today. Not any time soon, of course. Unless you want to.” There went his imaginary baby, and he was suddenly bereft. It would have been a boy, with Krillin’s winning smile, and his mother’s hair and height.

                “I don’t,” Eighteen said, simply, and Krillin nodded, the fabric of the pillowcase rasping against his bald head. There went his happy life. Then, after a moment, “Did you propose marriage to me?”

                “Well,” Krillin squirmed in his embarrassment, “I thought you might get pregnant. I was trying to tell you I’d be there for you, do the right thing.” He had no idea what she wanted to hear.

                “So you don’t want to marry me, then?” Eighteen asked, and her machine voice was so hard to read that if Krillin wasn’t bald, he would have ripped his hair out in frustration.

                “Eighteen,” he sighed, “I would marry you in a heartbeat. Any day, any time, pregnant or not. Hell, if you wanted to, I would marry you this very second.”

                “Okay.”

                “Okay, what?” Krillin snapped, on the edge of hysteria. “What do you mean?” He didn’t mean to be so demanding; ordinarily he’d have gone on in meek confusion for fear of upsetting her, but he felt like he’d just been on a roller coaster, the kind that twists and turns and goes upside down so that you feel like you might puke, but the second the carts stop, you’re jumping back in line for another go. He didn’t think he could handle any more of her ambiguity.

                “Okay, I’ll marry you. But not today,” Eighteen said, narrowing her eyes as though daring him to protest. “I want a fancy dress.”      

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                “What are you doing, Roshi?” Oolong poked his head into the opening of the little leisure cruiser. It was the smallest of Red Station’s contingent of ships and it had a full tank of gas.

                “I was thinking you and I might go on a little joyride,” Roshi said. “I’m bored as a walrus in the desert.”

                “A walrus would die in the desert.” Oolong hoisted himself up through the doorway of the spacecraft

                “Exactly! I’m going to die of boredom here.” Roshi squinted at the control panel’s display screen to check the line of text he’d entered. So far so good. “Where’s the damn F on this keyboard?” he asked, focusing on the keyboard now, his two index fingers poised above it in search of the next key.

                “Ugh, I can’t stand to watch you type,” Oolong grunted. “It’s painful.” He shoved Roshi to the side, laced his stubby fingers together, and cracked his knuckles. A pop and puff of smoke later, and Oolong was sporting the slim, elegant hands of a concert pianist. He set his long fingers to the keyboard and said, “What are we doing?”

                Roshi demurred a moment, pretending to be affronted, but secretly relieved to be away from the devil-keypad. “I volunteered us for a supply run. The diagosticums need to be run.”

                “Diagnostics, you old coot,” Oolong muttered, as he deleted Roshi’s error-ridden command string and re-typed the proper sequence at the speed of light. “It’s running,” he added, when the speakers chimed.

                “Great,” Roshi rubbed his hands together, “sweet, sweet freedom, here we come.”

                “Yeah, I can’t wait!” Oolong’s hands shrank with a “paff” and he rubbed his fat, stubby fingers together, before holding one hand out for a fist bump. “These magic fingers,” he waggled ten little sausages in the air, “will soon be full of titties.” He squeezed and ran his palms in crescents through the air, outlining the curve and testing the heft of an imaginary pair of breasts.

                “Stop the presses!” Mrs. Briefs’ shrill voice echoed through the hangar and into their skulls with all the sudden charm of an air raid siren. The sharp clack-clack-clack of her kitten heels against the steel flooring panels followed “Hold the music! Do NOT put the pedal to the metal!” She came into view, skidding around a corner, and jiggling her way toward the two bewildered perverts. By the time she ran up the loading ramp into the little spacecraft, she was out of breath and only able to communicate in wild, gasping gestures.          

                “We’re just running a diagnostic, Mrs. B.” Oolong gestured at the screen, as Mrs. Briefs put her hands on her knees to brace herself, and gasped for air. “Won’t be taking off for a couple hours, probably.”

                “Oh thank goodness!” Mrs. Briefs exclaimed, between gasps for air. “I caught you just in time!”

                “What’s the matter?” Roshi asked, though his real attention was glued to the heaving of her tube top. “What can old Roshi do to make it all better?”

                “Oh, nothing’s the matter!” Breath recovered, Mrs. Briefs patted her lopsided hair back into place and clasped her hands together, eyes shining. “It’s WONDERFUL news!”

                “So spit it out, already,” Oolong huffed. He had a bad feeling about this.

                “The plans for the supply run have changed, boys! We need to go shopping, big time, because we’re going to have a WEDDING!” She squealed the last word and bounced on her toes, before flinging her arms wide and throwing them around Oolong’s head. She pulled him to her, burying his snout right in her cleavage, and wiggled from side to side in paroxysms of delight. “We’re going to get Eighteen the most beautiful dress, and my gosh, we’ll need a feast and a cake, and flowers and Krillin will have to wear a tuxedo, he’ll look so handsome!”

                “Krillin is getting married?” Roshi asked, at the same time as Oolong blurted “Eighteen is marrying _Krillin_?”

                “There’s no accounting for the taste of women,” Oolong snorted, “but, you know, she takes what she can get. Poor girl just didn’t have enough chest for me,” he mimed a pair of big breasts, overtop of his own not-insubstantial moobs.

                “I’ll bake the most beautiful cake, and we’ll have the reception in the garden,” Mrs. Briefs prattled on, immune to the disharmony she’d caused. “And of course Krillin and Eighteen will have to go ring shopping.

                “So does this mean I won’t be balls deep in hot dancers any time soon?” Oolong asked, and Roshi, despite his own disappointment, found himself happy for the young man who’d become like a son to him.

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                Wedding plans were well underway, despite the protestations of the couple. Eighteen didn’t give a crap what happened as long as she got to wear a gown, and Krillin just wanted to do what Eighteen wanted. He was still in a daze and lived in mortal fear that Eighteen would snap out of it and change her mind before she was legally shackled to him.

Vegeta couldn’t wait until the whole fucking business was done, so that his ship could go back to being his ship. He lived in fear that whatever insanity had affected the women aboard might soon seep its way into Bulma’s brain.

                “You’ve been tense lately, huh?” Bulma’s hands descended upon his shoulders, and he couldn’t quite help the groan that escaped as she began to work at the bunched, knotted muscles. “Don’t worry, the supply run leaves in the morning. We’ll be at half capacity here for a whole week and a half, at least.”

                “Dawn cannot come quickly enough,” Vegeta grumbled and behind him, Bulma laughed.

                “Let them have their excitement,” she said. “There’s so much tension in the air. You know it, I know it,” she pushed her thumb into a particularly hard spot at the base of his neck, “your shoulders know it.”

                Vegeta groaned again as Bulma hit a particularly good spot on his neck, but didn’t respond to her. He dropped his chin to his chest, stretching out to give her better access to the tender spots at the base of his skull. He set down the tablet he’d been reading and breathed in, deeply. Bulma was fresh out of the shower and traces of floral soap still clung to her skin.

                “It’s coming soon, isn’t it?” she asked. “The final showdown?”

                “Yes,” he said, and her hands fluttered and stilled against his skin. He braced himself for an outburst, but she stayed silent. Her fingers tightened like a vise, and he suspected that it might have hurt quite a bit if he’d been human. As it was, it felt kind of nice.

                “You’ll win, won’t you?” Bulma asked. Vegeta could feel her fingers begin to tremble with the strain of holding on so tight. He was silent and for a moment, Bulma actually thought he might admit to a sense of uncertainty.

                “What kind of question is that?” he asked, finally. “I am stronger than I have ever been. I am the Super Saiyan. I will grind Frieza’s skull beneath my boots.”

                “When?”

                “I don’t know. Soon.”

                “Okay.” Bulma rubbed the cramps from her fingers before settling her hands once more on Vegeta’s shoulders. “I…” she began, and trailed off.

                “Nothing to say? For once?” Vegeta sneered, mocking. He felt her flinch away, yank her hands from his skin, but he was too quick for her, caught her fingers in his and resisted her feeble tugging.

                “I don’t know why you have to be so cruel to me.” Bulma stopped tugging, knowing she wouldn’t win. Knowing she didn’t really want to win.

                “This is not cruel. You don’t know cruelty.” He drew her arm forward over his shoulder, pulling till her breasts brushed his back, and dragged her fingers across his lips. She wasn’t wearing a bra and Vegeta could feel her nipples pucker through the thin cotton of her shirt.

                “Yeah, I get it. You’re so tortured and tragic.” Her voice was breathy, pulse quick at her wrist. “You need a new shtick, Vegeta.” Her words were tainted with acid, but he just snorted.

                “Fickle creature,” he said, and in one quick move, too swift for her eyes, he’d stood from his chair, twisted round, and picked her up. Before she could take a breath, they were across the room and she was being dropped on the bed. Vegeta stood on the floor between her splayed knees. “I have never met a woman so determined to be contrary,” he said, reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head. “So often in need of discipline. You’re worse than the greenest soldier.”

                “Discipline, is it?” Bulma glared up at him. “I told you from pretty much the moment you set foot on _my ship_ that I don’t take orders from you.”

                “Believe what you want,” Vegeta said, drawing a yelp as he grabbed her ankles and yanked her body close to the bed’s edge. “If it helps you feel better about yourself.” He knelt between her spread legs, and hooked her knees over his shoulders. She was ready for bed, wearing just a tank top and her underwear. “Look at you,” he added, breath hot though her cotton panties, “you’re soaking wet. You might not take orders well, but I can certainly tell who’s in charge, here.”

                “Said the man on his knees,” Bulma snapped, but shifted her hips and crossed her ankles behind his back, getting comfy. Vegeta inhaled deeply, burying his nose against the damp gusset of her panties with a groan. He reached up to pull it out of the way, and Bulma shivered as his tongue touched her skin. She reached down to his head, ran her fingers though his hair to the back of his skull, and slowly dragged her nails forward along his scalp. She smiled to hear his sigh of pleasure and soon followed it with one of her own as his attentions continued.

                “I have an extensive mental catalogue of all the times you have been on your knees before me, Bulma.” Vegeta pulled away and hooked his fingers into the waist of her underwear. She lifted her rear so he could slide them down her hips, past her knees and over her ankles, to end up on the floor. He made his way back up her legs, pausing to scrape his teeth against the soft skin of her inner thigh. He stood and bent over her, reaching out to run his thumb over her bottom lip. “The sight of these lips, wrapped around me, is burned into my brain.” Bulma opened her mouth, bit his thumb gently between her teeth, drew it in. Vegeta groaned, pulled away and stood between her parted legs. He reached for his own waistband, dragging it down inch by inch.

                Bulma bit her bottom lip as she watched this slow strip. She’d seen his body a thousand times, knew how he looked naked before she’d ever even come to know him, and yet the sight of him never failed to excite her. She squirmed, waiting, as the deep v of his pelvis revealed itself between jutting hip bones, lower, lower, the thick root of his cock just barely visible.

                “Vegeta,” Bulma said, somewhere between a plea and a demand for him to hurry up. She tried to close her thighs together, maybe to relieve some of the pressure building there, but his body was in the way. Her voice seemed to electrify him and he jolted into action, pushing his pants the rest of the way down and kicking out of them. She was already tearing into a condom, pinching the end and rolling it down over him with practiced ease. She raised her hips to him and he sank home slowly, as her body adjusted to his intrusion. She clung to him, enjoying the feeling of fullness, of closeness.

                “This is my favourite part,” she murmured against his chest, and he snorted.

                “My favourite part is when I come,” he retorted, but stayed buried deep within her for a moment more, before he started moving.

                “Charmer,” she said, as her hips caught the rhythm and she rose up to meet him, but as he moved and the pressure in her belly built, she couldn’t help but to agree. Coming was pretty fucking fabulous, too.

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You might be wondering how Oolong got so quick at typing. He honed his keyboarding skills by writing erotic _All My_ _Starsystems_ fanfiction under the penname “Hamboner69”.


	51. Chapter 51

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Life kind of threw me a curveball, and things have been very uncertain and up in the air over the past few months. I’m sorry for the delay. We’re getting closer and closer to the end of the story, and I swear I am not giving up till it’s done. Thanks very much for your patience.

Also, my paragraph indents seem to have gone wonky while copying this in here and I can't seem to fix 'em. Sorry about that.

Last time: Goku’s heart problems were revealed, Krillin and Eighteen did the nasty (Krillin’s got the moves). A wedding is on the horizon, and Vegeta just wants everybody to shut up about it.

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                Goku watched from the edge of the hangar as Sixteen walked around one of the smaller transport ships, doing a slow and thorough pre-flight check. Tien was inside the craft, checking on their food and supply stores for the five day trip to Narmis, the nearest planet on a decent trade route. They needed to get medical supplies, stuff that wasn’t readily available on Tech Tech.

                Goku sighed and sat down on a bench, wincing as the needle in his left arm tugged a little. His forehead broke out in sweat at the thought of it, and he resolutely refused to look down. If he was braver, he might have ripped it out himself, but he was too afraid to touch the damn thing.

He tried to ignore it, but it was hard. Every time he moved, he seemed to jar the tubing that fed into the needle, making it wiggle beneath his skin. Goku could feel even the tiniest motion, and of course there were the bigger, more painful tugs when he forgot to grab hold of his wheeled drip stand and started walking. It followed him, of course, trailing along on his drip tube like a child’s toy on a string. It hurt the most when he did that. The stand would tip and wobble, sending a tug and a tremor through the whole line and right into his veins.

                “How you feeling, buddy?” Bulma appeared next to him, gently turning his arm with her cool hands so she could check the needle’s placement. She peeled back the medical tape that held it in place, took a quick look to make sure the metal was still buried properly in his arm, and smoothed the tape back down. It had taken five of them to get the IV needle in there in the first place – herself, Chichi, and Sixteen had argued with Goku for the better part of an hour, first trying to calm him, reason with him, persuade him into compliance, before giving up and resorting to brute force. Radditz, Gohan, Sixteen, and Chichi had pinned him, while Bulma got stuck with the task of trying to get the needle in. Saiyan skin was tougher than it looked.

Goku swallowed thickly, and wiped beads of sweat from his face with his other hand. Looking at the entry site made him dizzy. “You’re about halfway there,” Bulma said, setting his arm down as she stood to check the half-empty IV bag that hung from Goku’s stand. “You’re probably feeling pretty nauseated today, huh?”

                “Nah, I’m fine. Raring to go,” Goku said, but Bulma could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the green cast to his skin. “I still don’t know why I’m not allowed to go with the crew to Narmis,” he whined.

                “Goku, I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” Bulma said. Then, because she was unable to help herself, she did it anyway. “I mean, look at you! You can hardly stand, your hands are shaking. These are not fun drugs.”

                “That was an answer,” Goku said, and Bulma was tempted to tweak the needle in his arm in retaliation. “And my hands are not shaking,” he added, even though they were. Whatever they were pumping into him made him feel both jittery and tired at the same time.

                “Anyway,” Bulma continued, pointedly, “there’s hardly anyone even going to Narmis. None of the saiyans are going, Piccolo is staying behind too.”

                “Yeah, and those guys get to train,” Goku retorted, crossing his arms, then yelping as the motion shifted the needle. “Damn it,” he swore. “All I get to do is sit around here like a useless nothing.”

                “Stop pouting, Goku. Unbeknownst to you, there’s lots to do around here that doesn’t involve training. I resent the implication that what I do, what my parents do, what Dende at the other Nameks do, is all useless.”

                “It’s not.”

                “Oh! Really?” Bulma whipped a blood pressure cuff from her bag and put it on his good arm. “So why’s it that it’s only useless if you do it?”

                Goku looked up at Bulma as the the cuff’s mechanism began to whir, filling it with air and squeezing his arm. She glared down at him, and he shrank into himself a little, hunching his shoulders in defense.

                “I’m sorry, Goku. I have to be honest, I’m getting tired of your moping. I know you’re sick, and I know you don’t _know how_ to be sick. It’s frustrating, it’s aggravating, and yeah, you can’t train or go on adventures right now like you want to. But you have to deal with it. You’re not the first person in the universe who can’t do what they want to.” The cuff beeped and began to deflate. Bulma noted the numbers, inputting them into a little tablet she carried, before unwrapping the cuff and stowing it again. “There are a lot of important things to do, Goku. This ship doesn’t run itself. People cook and clean, plant and tend the new gardens, listen to the radio reports and keep an ear out for news. I know you can’t train, but being truly useless…well, that’s a choice.”

                “I’m sorry.” Goku let out a big sigh. “I guess I’m kind of acting like a baby, aren’t I?”

                “The biggest baby,” Bulma said, grinning so that Goku would know she didn’t mean it. “It’s temporary, Goku. I swear it. Sixteen and I will not let this keep you down forever. You just have to bear it for a while longer.”

                “Sure, Bulma. I believe in you.” Goku stood up and carefully took hold of his IV stand. “I need to not be moping around here. What can I do?”

                “The garden always needs extra help. I think my mom was hoping to get some of those orange bean things harvested today.”

                “The ones that taste like beets?” Goku made a face, and Bulma laughed.

                “The very same. But make sure you try to avoid using your left arm if you can. The less you move it, the less that needle will bother you.”

                “I know, I know.” Goku snapped his heels together, stood straight up, and gave Bulma a military salute with his good arm. “Are you going to Narmis?”

                “Nope. Sixteen has a better idea of what we need to treat you. Plus I am like this close,” she held up her hand, pointer finger and thumb pinched so they were mere millimeters apart, “to finishing my latest ki-absorbing armour prototype. I’ve also got some…other projects I’m tinkering with, that I’ve let sit for too long.”

                “Really? I thought you’d be going with Eighteen to buy wedding stuff. You know, mother of the bride and all that.” Goku grinned cheekily and Bulma stuck out her tongue.

                “Hah! No thanks. I’m letting mom go. She’s over the moon about finally getting to plan a wedding.”

                “Well Chichi is super excited. I thought all women liked weddings.”

                “Goku, you are not exactly an expert on women. Besides, _other people’s_ weddings are great. You get to show up and have a big party with all of your friends, get totally bombed, and if you’re single, make out with a hot groomsman, without having to do any of the behind the scenes work. If it was just Eighteen, I’d be all in, but Goku, unless direct intervention is requested by the bride herself, I am staying as far away as possible from my mother’s wedding schemes.” Bulma reached up and turned Goku’s head this way and that, feeling up under his jaw and around his ears for swollen glands.

                “Ouch, it’s tender on the right side.”

                “Yeah, I can feel some swelling there. That’s a pretty normal reaction, I think, with these meds.” She made another note on her tablet. “Anyway, I’m thinking of just hiding out until the whole wedding business is done with. My mother gets starry-eyed when she looks at me. I know that mind of hers is dressing me up in pounds of tulle.”

                “I don’t even know what that is.”

                “Consider yourself lucky. Bend down a bit so I can take your temperature,” Bulma said, reaching up to Goku’s ear with a little digital thermometer. He obliged, crouching low for the few seconds required for the little device to read him. She input the temperature into her tablet and did a quick comparison with the data she had from the others. “Thirty nine point five degrees Celsius; that’d be a pretty high fever if you were a human. Fun fact, did you know that you guys run about two or three degrees hotter than humans?”

                “Um, no. Thanks, good to know, I guess. Need anything else?” Goku asked, watching as Bulma pulled a few items out to re-pack the bag at her hip.

                “Nope, that concludes this roving checkup. Going to the gardens?” she asked, and he nodded. “Okay say hi to everyone for me. And remember, take it easy.”

                “Will do,” Goku sighed as Bulma turned away and strode off in Sixteen’s direction. He watched them pair off, heads bent together over Bulma’s tablet, her flipping through screens and gesticulating broadly as Sixteen contributed the occasional nod. Discussing the next round of medications and procedures, the next set of restrictions, no doubt.

                Goku shook his head and took hold of his IV stand. He wheeled it carefully across the hangar floor, careful when he hit the strip of inset drainage grates to not let his wheels get stuck. Going up and down between levels on the ship’s system of ladders with his IV stand was a real pain in the ass, but he managed well enough to get up to the garden deck. There was a small cargo lift that went up and down between the lower floors, but Goku didn’t like using it. As piddly as it was, climbing a ladder was still exercise and he was determined to sneak as much of that in as possible.

                “Hey dad!” Gohan’s smiling face greeted Goku as he popped up though the floor hatch in the conservatory. “Come to help us harvest?”

                “Yeah, I’m making myself useful,” Goku said as he climbed the last few rungs. Gohan reached down to help him with the awkward stand.  “Didn’t know you’d be here. Figured they’d have you training.”

                “I’m due back soon,” Gohan grinned. “Thought I’d use my break to help out a bit and catch up with my friends.” He gestured behind himself to the passel of namekians, all working industriously among the plants.

“Well, where do you need me?” Goku asked, not sure where to start. Throughout the conservatory, people were busy weeding, plucking, pruning, and even making notes. Many of the things growing in Mrs. Briefs’ garden were mystery plants, unfamiliar to everyone on board, and they were still in the process of learning how to take care of everything. Seventeen was leading an effort to collect and test samples of everything to determine edibility and other uses.

“I’m working on the orange beans with some of the others. You can help us harvest them.”

“Ahh, hello Goku,” Fife  greeted Goku as he followed Gohan to the bushes. Beside him, Dende smiled and waved. “The backup has arrived! These little things are growing so fast, we can hardly keep up with picking them all. Mrs. Briefs tells us we cannot leave them on the plant for too long, or they will begin to rot.” He handed Goku a basket. “Seventeen says they are high in protein, of which I am told both humans and saiyans require in high amounts.”

“Also the leaves are kind of bitter, but they’re high in iron. I guess mom and Mrs. Briefs are gonna start using these to help reduce the amount of meat we’re consuming,” Gohan added.

“But…I like meat.” Goku plucked a dark, rust coloured pod from the bush and dropped it into his basket. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “These taste like beets. Steak tastes like steak. Big difference.”

“Steak is expensive.” Seventeen’s voice startled them all as he appeared around the end of the hedge, carrying a tablet and a tray of specimens for testing. The twins’ lack of ki meant that they were constantly startling their energy-sensing crewmates. The only ones immune were Bulma and her parents, who had no ki sense to begin with. “With five saiyans aboard, we spend a phenomenal amount of credit in the procurement of sufficient animal flesh as to fulfill your dietary need for protein.”

“Wha?”

“He means we spend too much on meat, dad,” Gohan said, laughing as he watched his father do the oh-so-familiar Goku-head-scratch. “We’re putting the team in the poor house.”

“Is it that expensive? On Earth we just hunted and fished. Oh, and Chichi kept chickens and sometimes we ate those. Maybe we should get some chickens.”

“Don’t be silly, dad. Where would we put chickens?”

“It is actually not a terrible idea,” Seventeen said, as he made a note on his tablet. Goku watched, thinking a lot of people seemed to be taking notes on those things about him lately. “Birds of that size require only a few square feet per animal for comfortable living, and feed would be relatively inexpensive. Chickens themselves are now extinct, of course, but if we could find a similar livestock animal, we could potentially supplement our vegetable crops quite nicely.”

“You sure know a lot about chickens,” Goku grinned rubbing his hands together and licking his lips, “but nobody comes close to Chichi when it comes to knowing how to cook ‘em!”

“All I remember about taking care of chickens is that they’re smelly,” Gohan said, and his father laughed.

“Well sure, after a winter of huddling together and hardly going out the coop can get a little ripe.” He turned to the others to explain further. “Gohan used to love helping us feed ‘em, but the first time he was big enough to help with the real work, it was time to muck the coop out during spring thaw.”

“I hate to interrupt, but what exactly is a chicken?” Dende piped up, drawing grins from Goku and Gohan. “And what does ‘muck the coop’ mean?”

“Bleh, you don’t want to know,” Gohan said, with a laugh.

“Some animals care where they go to the bathroom,” Goku said. “Chickens…don’t. Things get pretty gross when it’s so cold that they don’t dare venture outside for weeks on end. And that’s putting it nicely.”

“Ick,” Dende said, and the curled-lip look of horror on his face was enough to set father and son howling with laughter.

“With sufficient ventilation and an organized cleaning routine we could eliminate such potential problems,” Seventeen said, but everyone else was too busy giggling to notice. He shrugged and focused on his tablet, scrolling through the fledgling database he’d created. The orange-bean bush (for nobody seemed to know what the plant was actually called) had turned out to be quite a valuable addition to their garden. Besides the nutritional value of the beans and the leaves, he’d found that the woody bark contained high concentrations of salicin, a pain reliever. It might not do for saiyan-sized wounds, but steeped in tea could help with milder aches and day to day pains.

“Do you need anything, Seventeen?” Fife asked, looking over the android’s shoulder at the screen.

“I’d like another full sample set from this plant. Roots, bark, soft tissue, and leaves.” Seventeen’s pale fingers flew over the onscreen keyboard. “I did a chemical workup on the beans recently but the rest was last tested during the flowering phase and I want to see if the growth cycle makes a difference to the chemical concentrations.”

“Of course, I’ll gather those right away.” Fife nodded and turned away to gather some sample containers and labeling supplies. The namekians had not grown food crops for themselves, but had been well versed in using plants for their medical properties. Many of them were enthusiastic participants in the creation of the garden catalogue, but Fife was eager to learn the science behind it all, and Seventeen did not mind his new role as tutor.

                A sudden, shrill beeping drew everyone’s attention to Gohan, who dug though his pockets, searching for the source. “Sorry, that’s my timer,” he said, drawing out a slim disk and hitting the button to stop the noise. “Gotta go. I’m due to meet Radditz back on the training deck.”

                “Thank you for your help,” Dende said with a wave, and Goku and a few other namekians nearby also called out goodbyes. “See you later.”

                “See ya everybody! Bye dad, bye Dende.” Gohan waved and was gone in a flash. Goku pushed down the wave of longing that engulfed him, and picked another bean. He wanted to go train, too.

                “Gohan was telling me stories of the dragonballs on Earth,” Dende said, sidling up to work alongside Goku. Seventeen had wandered away and they were the only two working on their row. “He said you and Miss Bulma used to go on adventures all over the planet to find them.”

                “Yeah, we sure did!” Goku smiled fondly as memories of Earth flooded his mind. “Did Gohan tell you he used to wear the four star ball on his hat when he was little?”

                “On his hat? But surely even a small saiyan couldn’t have balanced a dragonball on his head.” Wide eyed with surprise, Dende gestured a big, round, object with his arms out in front of his chest.

                “Huh?” Goku asked, miming a much smaller one with his hands. “They were only about this big.”

                “Oh! Dende laughed, his brow ridges coming low over his eyes in puzzlement. “Ours were much bigger! I wonder why.”

                “You mean you had them too?” Goku asked. “You had dragonballs on Namek?”

                “Sure we did, Guru made them. Didn’t you know? It is a special skill only very powerful and strong namekians can learn. Your Kami-Piccolo made them on Earth, didn’t he?”

                “I had no idea. Well I knew Kami made them, yeah, but I guess I thought it was more of a Kami skill than a namekian one.”

                “Honestly, I was surprised to learn that your Kami was able to create them. Typically the skill is passed from Grand Elder to Grand Elder. In fact, one of the first tasks of a new Grand Elder is to create a new set, out of the stones that fell inert when the last elder passed. To create a set from scratch…well, it’s quite a feat. Gohan said your balls could only grant one wish.”

                “Could only?” Goku popped a bean in his mouth and grimaced at the taste of pickled beets. “Do you mean yours did more?”

                “Yes, the dragonballs on Namek could grant three wishes.”

                “Wowza! Imagine what a person could do with three whole wishes.” Goku rocked back on his heels and scratched the back of his head. The needle in his arm wiggled and he glared at the IV stand beside him. Goku wondered if Namekian dragonballs could cure illnesses. “Say, you’re Grand Elder now, aren’t you? Couldn’t you make dragonballs?”

                Dende flushed and stammered, flustered at the very idea of being able to do such a thing. “I know how to reanimate a set, thanks to Guru’s memories. But with our stones destroyed on Namek, I would have to create them from scratch, which Guru never did. I don’t think I’m nearly strong enough. And without a planet to tie them to, they’d scatter across the entire universe.”

                “Hmm, yeah I guess that’s a problem. Couldn’t you just tie them here on Tech-Tech?”

                “Theoretically yes, but in practice I don’t think it’s so simple. In order to tie a set of dragonballs to a planet, the creator has to tie himself to that planet as well. It’s not just a matter of me choosing, either. The planet also must accept the bond and the toll of housing dragonballs. Dragons don’t come from nothing, and have to get their energy from somewhere. Kami was the guardian of Earth, Guru was the Grand Elder of Namek, but I am nothing to this place.”

                “That sucks.” Goku pouted, and Dende laughed.

                “Yes, well I imagine the chaos that would be created if my people could go creating dragonballs willy nilly, and I am grateful for the difficulties.”

                Goku nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. We had some close calls with some pretty bad people on Earth. Still though, you should think about it. Your dragonballs would be the best protected in the whole universe, I bet. No way Vegeta would let anyone else get their hands on them. Then again, I could see him making some pretty sketchy wishes…” Goku trailed off and Dende laughed again, but it was not wholly a happy sound.

                “I don’t think any power in our universe could give Vegeta back what he truly wishes for,” Dende said, in that oddly detached way that sometimes overcame him when thoughts of Guru were at the fore of his brain. “And I hesitate to see what he might choose as a consolation prize.”

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                “You’re clear for liftoff, Sixteen,” Bulma said, scanning the launch pad one last time to make sure no stray tech-techs had wandered accidentally into the blast zone of the small ship’s engines.

                “Preparing for engine thrust in 10,” Sixteen replied, and Bulma heard the hum of gathering energy.

                “Everything looks good out here. Safe travels.” A small crowd of absurdly tiny, adorable tech-tech children had gathered to watch the ship go, and Bulma stood waving with them as it lifted off and zipped off into the sky.

Sixteen, Eighteen, Tien, Krillin, and Mrs. Briefs were bound for Narmis for a few days of shopping and supply gathering. Seventeen, Goku, Dende, and most of the other namekians were heavily occupied with gardening, both on and off the ship. Everyone else was more or less self-sufficient, which meant that Bulma was looking forward to a nice, long, uninterrupted stretch of quality time in her lab.

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                “What do you think of this one?” Eighteen asked, spinning in a circle to display the fluffy, white confection of a gown she wore. She actually kind of hated it, but she did like the attention that Mrs. Briefs was showering upon her. Every new dress was met with squeals and hand-clapping, proclamations that this was ‘the one’. Compliments rained down upon Eighteen, and she was having a very good time.

                “It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Briefs exclaimed, clasping her hands together and holding them to her heart. She hopped out of the plush chair she’d been sitting in, and came over to fuss with one of the enormous chiffon flowers that dotted the full skirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so lovely.” She smoothed the fabric petals and fluffed them out. “I think this is the one!”

                “Do you?” Eighteen asked, and if Mrs. Briefs didn’t understand sarcasm from a normal person, she sure as hell wasn’t picking it up from the taciturn android.

                “Oh, I do! You’re an absolute vision.”

                “Hmm,” Eighteen pursed her lips and twiddled the petals of a big flower that sat right on her hip. “I don’t like it.”

                “Absolutely, we can do better!” Mrs. Briefs chimed in immediately, changing her tune without even a blink. “Only the best for you, Eighteen dear, and this is clearly not it.” She shook her head and brushed her hands together as though clapping off dirt. “Miss,” she signalled for the spindly wisp of a woman that was their salesperson, “miss, we need to see another one. More poof.”

                “Sleek,” Eighteen said, miming an hourglass figure. “Nipped in at the waist and flared out at the hips, but natural looking. Make my chest look bigger.”

                “We cannnnn do thhhhat,” the salesalien answered in her whispering, windy voice. She lengthened certain consonants bizarrely, as though her lips were reluctant to let them go. She turned in a whirl, gauzy dress floating around her legs as though she was just riding a gust of air.

                “She’s like a dandelion seed on the breeze.” Mrs. Briefs watched her go, admiringly. “Though she’s far too thin. Do you think I should nip out and buy her a sandwich?”

                Eighteen cocked her head and said “I’m not sure she can even eat solids. I didn’t see any teeth in her mouth.”

                “A smoothie, then?”

                “Herrrrrre we arrrrrrre, llllllladies. Starrrrrrt with thhhhhhhese.” The wisp reappeared with a few more dresses. She set them in the dressing room for Eighteen, removing a huge pile of rejected dresses, before disappearing to the racks again for more samples.

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                Bulma set her soldering gun carefully down in its cradle and pushed her safety googles up onto the top of her head. She swung a mounted magnifier into place, peering through it to inspect the connection she’d just repaired, checking for visible flaws in the neat line of solder. Seeing none, she tapped a panel back into place, heaved a sigh, and sat back in her chair to examine the abomination on her workbench. She was at once terribly proud and deeply uncomfortable with her version of the ki draining circlet.

                Bulma reached out and traced her finger along the sleek curve, over the smooth, rounded nodes she’d engineered to replace the vicious temple screws of the original design. It was a thing of beauty, a technological marvel, and it made her sick to her stomach.

She’d tried to make it relatively painless, but it didn’t seem possible, not after watching what had happened to Vegeta during his first brushes with the Super Saiyan transformation. Ki wasn’t a switch that could be turned on and off – all that energy had to go _somewhere_. The circlet wouldn’t be like supressing ki naturally, especially not on an unwilling wearer. It would be like cramming electricity into a box. With unlimited time at her disposal, she could change that, perfect it.

One day, she promised herself ruefully, she would crack the secret to time travel. Until then, the circlet was a torture device, plain and simple. She’d made something cruel and inhuman, and despite her discomfort, the thought of Frieza wearing her crown gave her a slimy feeling of satisfaction.

“Means to an end, Bulma,” she muttered to herself. Maybe when it was all over, she would “lose” the plans and related research in the furnace, just like Gero’s horrible design for the Cell android. That way the technology could never be used against someone she didn’t deem worthy.

Shaking her head, Bulma picked up the circlet and set it inside a protective carrying case. It was peak training time, which meant that all of her test subjects were likely to be right where she needed them.

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Yul sauntered down the street, basket on one arm, beau on the other, and a big grin on her face. She was on a date – a real one. The man beside her was young and handsome. His name was Crane and he had been courting her for the past couple of months. He’d brought flowers to her door, made awkward small talk as she cut and arranged them, and now his sweaty palm was entwined with hers. When they finished shopping, he’d bring her home, kiss her, and then go home. She could invite him in, but she wouldn’t. No sex, no obligation. Here, Yul wasn’t a prostitute, she was a regular woman. She could have suitors, real ones who wanted to get to know her instead of just spread her knees apart.

                “Ooh, I love this shop. Can we stop in? I just want to see if they’ve got anything new.”

                Crane looked adoringly at their joined hands, his gaze travelling past their entwined fingers, up her slim arms, over her neck, to stop at her nose. He gulped nervously, and met her eyes. “Of course,” he said, not quite able to believe his luck. All the guys he knew joked about Yul’s six breasts, but Crane knew he was falling for what was underneath those breasts. Well, sort of underneath the point between the uppermost left two, probably. Her heart.

“There’s…um, a wedding dress in the window,” he said, boldly. His eyes darted away from hers, and his face flamed with nerves. “Are you trying to hint at something?”

“They have regular ones too,” Yul said, grinning, “but you know, maybe.” She winked one big, overly made up eye as Crane opened the door for her. He stumbled in shock, tripping right into a curvy, blonde stranger who was coming out the door at the same time.

 “Oh! I’m so sorry,” Crane said, reaching to grab her as she toppled backward into another blonde woman, this one thin, with ice in her eyes.

                “Jeepers!” The curvy one yelped and tripped back. She would have fallen flat on her rear but the thin woman’s arms shot out, lightning fast, to catch her older friend by the elbows and haul her back to her feathered mules.

                “I’m so sorry, are you alright?”

                “Oh, of course dear, of course. So kind of you to ask, such a handsome young man. Is this your wife?” Mrs. Briefs turned to Yul, as the red-faced young man sputtered and stammered. Any other time, Yul would have been thrilled by such a comment – she’d never looked classy enough to have been mistaken for someone’s wife before. This time, however, she was not paying attention. Yul was fixated on the tall blonde, and on the feeling of unease creeping through her veins.

                “I know you,” Yul blurted, locking narrowed eyes with Eighteen. She tilted her head in confusion. “How do I know you?”

                “You don’t,” Eighteen said stiffly, though she too was sizing up this sudden deja-vu. The search function that was her memory locked on in seconds, providing a gaunt face, far too heavily made up, skinny arms clinging to Oolong’s fake muscles. The woman before her looked healthier, with more meat on her bones and more clothing covering her skin. There was less paint on her face, though that wasn’t saying much. Yul had not quite learned the art of “less is more” yet. The six breasts didn’t hurt Eighteen’s recognition, either.  This was one of the three women responsible for bringing Frieza’s forces down on Harbour Colony.

“We are leaving now,” Eighteen said, quickly propelling Mrs. Briefs out the door. She couldn’t take the chance and stick around, they had to get away from this small outpost before the “dancer” made sense of the situation and called the authorities.

                “Oh, of course.” The man stepped gallantly out of the doorway, allowing them to pass. “And again, I’m terribly sorry and glad you aren’t hurt, ma’am.” Mrs. Briefs smiled and would have simpered her thanks, but barely had time to snatch up a fat carrier bag before being dragged out the door by Eighteen.

                “Oh, what a nice young man,” Mrs. Briefs tittered as Eighteen pulled her along. “We should invite them back to the ship for tea. Whatever are you in such a hurry for? You almost forgot your dress!” She lifted the bag in illustration as she tapped desperately along behind Eighteen, trying to keep up.

                “We have to get back to the ship,” Eighteen said, not bothering to explain herself. It was her duty to get Mrs. Briefs back to the transport ship, contact the others, and get them the hell away from this planet.

                “Oh, but-“

                “No buts!” Eighteen interrupted, and a poor, confused Mrs. Briefs tottered along in her wake. “Red Contingent,” Eighteen spoke into the comm unit on her wrist, glancing around to make sure nobody was paying them any special attention, “all members report back to the ship for immediate takeoff. Repeat, all members report back to the ship for immediate takeoff.”

                “Eighteen?” Krillin’s voice came back through the comm unit, sounding concerned. “Is everything alright?”

                “We have a situation, are the others with you?”

                “Yeah, Sixteen and Tien are here.”

                “Good,” Eighteen said tightly. “Get back to the ship, as fast as you can. We need to get out of here.  I think I have been recognized.”

                “Jeez, yikes, okay, I got it. Heading back now. Stay safe.”

                “You as well,” Eighteen said, and tightened her grip on Mrs. Briefs.

.

                “Love you,” Krillin blurted, but he did not get a response. “Crap,” he said, and darted out of the dressing room. “Guys, we have to go! Like, now.”

                “You gonna wear that?” Tien asked, gesturing to Krillin’s sock feet and pinned pants.

                “Shit, no. Crap. Two minutes.” Krillin darted back into the dressing room, ignoring the confused tailor, who’d stood ready with his tape measure. “Ouch, damn it!” he yelped, sticking himself with pins as he shimmied out of the pinned and tucked tuxedo trousers. On Earth he’d have gone for a custom made suit, but time constraints meant that he’d pulled something from the rack with the intent of having it chopped and stitched to fit.

                Outside the fitting room, Tien flagged down their salesman. “Sorry, we’ve got to go. We’ll take it as is,” he said. “Sixteen?”

The giant android pulled a credit chip from his armour and handed it over. “Unforeseen circumstances mean we must be on our way. Please complete the transaction as quickly as possible.”

                “Oh, no, surely you’re joking!” The salesman pouted as he processed Sixteen’s credit. He’d already mapped out what he was going to do with the hefty commission from the extensive tailoring work. “He cannot possibly wear it like that, really, it won’t take me long to finish pinning.” He held the credit chip and smiled hopefully, reluctant to return it even as the register dinged its approval and a receipt sputtered its way out of a nearby printer. Tien crossed his arms and shook his head.

                “We will make other arrangements,” Sixteen replied, and held his hand out. If he was aware of how menacing he looked, he might have tried to smile, but as usual Sixteen was ignorant of the effect of his appearance. The triple combo of his size, stony expression, and his badass orange mohawk had the usually tenacious salesman handing back the card with a gulp. The new shoes he’d planned on could wait for a customer who didn’t look like the space mafia.

                “I bet Chichi could whip it into shape. I think she used to make all of her and Goku’s clothes back home.” Krillin emerged from the dressing room with the tuxedo, which he’d replaced carefully on its hangar. “Thanks man,” he said as the salesman slipped a plastic bag over the whole thing to protect it. “Sorry for stealing your pins.”

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                Bulma set her toolbox down on the floor and reached for the workout room’s control panel. Within seconds of her typed commands, she could hear the gravity room’s power down sequence begin, followed by a string of loud, multilingual cursing. The door slammed open and Vegeta stormed out, trailed by a limping Nappa. Gohan and Radditz dropped to the ground from their mid-air spar on the outer mats and ambled over.

Bulma reached into her toolbox and took out a black case. Her audience gathered as she typed her access code into the computerized panel on the top. The locks sprang with a sweet chime, and the saiyans crowded around to get a look at their new secret weapon. Zarbon and Piccolo had also stopped their training and were watching from a little further back.

                “It doesn’t look like much,” Radditz said. He reached forward to touch it, and gave a surprised yelp when Bulma smacked his hand away.

                “Pah, pretty jewellery.” Nappa crossed his arms and sneered his disdain, even as he eyed the device warily.

                “Thank you, it IS unimaginably fine craftwork,” Bulma said as she lifted the ki-draining circlet from its padding and presented it to the crowd like a gameshow beauty. “I’ll need to code all of your fingerprints in,” she flipped the crown around and pointed to a small rectangle of shiny black glass, “for the failsafe. Nobody can activate or deactivate it whose prints aren’t in the system. Right now it only has mine.” She pressed her thumb to the glass, and the circlet hummed to life. She pressed her finger down again, and it cut out.

                Gohan swallowed nervously and backed up a few steps, shaking his head ever so slightly. Radditz looked pale, and Nappa’s jaw was clamped shut so hard that veins were standing out on his temples. “I know,” Bulma said. “I don’t like it either.”

                “I wasn’t even touching it and I feel queasy,” Gohan admitted.

                “Yeah, I think the effect on bystanders will be reduced when it’s actually on someone’s head. You put it on like this.” She checked the device to be sure it wasn’t on, lifted it, and set it carefully atop her head. “These little bumps,” she pointed out by way of feeling, “have to sit at the front, over the temples.”

                “What keeps it on?” Vegeta asked. “The plans we stole from Frieza had screws.”

                “Yeah, aside from how awful that thing was, do you really think you’ll be able to hold Frieza down while you drill screws into his skull?” Bulma took the crown off again and held it vertically, so she could look at the gathered audience through it. She pushed her finger against the sensor again. This time after the mechanism kicked in, everyone could see an inner ring of small, sharp spines spring out and come up from the underside.  “They come out a few seconds after the ring powers up, so there is no defense against them piercing the skin.”

“That’s more like it,” Nappa said. “Though they’re a little puny, don’t you think?”

 “I figured out the original screws were dual purpose. They held the crown on the victim, but they were only so long because they needed to actually make contact with the brain. These two nodes will send an electric signal into the brain that interferes with the ability to use ki. The hooks dig in from the bottom, but just deep enough so that the wearer can’t pull the crown upward.”

“You think Frieza is afraid of a few little hooks?” Vegeta scoffed. “He’ll tear it off, no problem.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s not a lot between your scalp and your skeleton.” Bulma looked queasy, now. “If the crown stays in place they’ll just do surface damage, but the hooks are angled so that upward force will cause them to penetrate the bone. If he rips off the circlet, he’ll take the top half of his skull off, too. Plus,” she added, “you’re going to kill that bastard the second you get this on him. It’s durable, but not indestructible. It’ll give you a window where he’s incapacitated for you to do what needs to be done.” She pushed her thumb to the glass panel again and the circlet shut down, its spikes retracting.

“Hmpf.” Vegeta took the circlet and looked at his team. He raised it above his head, and down over the brilliant sweep of his hair. Bulma grimaced as she watched him test the fit with his fingers, adjusting it so that it sat solidly in place. “Well?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“I don’t want to,” Bulma said, hiding her hands behind her back. She was being foolish, she knew.

“It has to be tested, doesn’t it? I’m the strongest one here.” Vegeta glared at her, regal in his crown, and her stomach turned. She sneaked a guilty glance at Nappa. He’d been used as a guinea pig for the ki blaster, back in the early days, and she’d sort of expected it to happen again.

“I know.” She turned away as Nappa caught her gaze and guffawed.

“Don’t look at me, little girl.” Nappa shook his head and stepped back. “I wouldn’t put that thing on for all the credits and all the whores in the galaxy.” The other saiyans stepped back as well, while Piccolo and Zarbon moved closer – not to volunteer themselves, but to see better what was about to happen.

“Well thank you for the vote of confidence, at least,” Bulma said dryly, and stepped toward Vegeta. “I don’t know what the ki suppression will feel like, but the spikes will hurt,” she said. “You’ll need to test their hold but do not, under any circumstances, try to pull it off of your head with any real force. You’ve got weird hair, but I prefer it to you scalping yourself.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes, but nodded, and Bulma had a fleeting moment of doubt. The circlet was capable of doing real damage, and she worried that Vegeta wasn’t taking it seriously enough.

“What are you waiting for?”

“We need a safeword,” Bulma blurted, and blushed as she heard Radditz snickering in the background. Vegeta’s scowl deepened and a faint trace of pink stained his cheekbones, as Bulma scrambled to explain herself. “I mean it, there’s a possibility that this could be extremely painful, and you’ll be screaming, and I’m going to want to jump in there and turn it off if that happens.”

“Fine, what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, something you wouldn’t normally blurt out while in pain,” Bulma snapped, stressed by the prospect of potentially damaging her pseudo-husband-boyfriend-whatever-the-hell.

“So ‘ _baby, hit me harder’_ is out of the question then?” Radditz muttered, not quite quietly enough. Though Vegeta didn’t react, Bulma caught the narrowing of his eyes that meant Raddtiz would be regretting it later.

“Dragonball,” Bulma said, watching the vein in Vegeta’s temple throb. “When things got bad on Earth, we could always count on the dragonballs to make it better. So if you can’t stand it any longer, say ‘dragonball’ okay?”

“Dragonball, dragonball, dragonball,” Vegeta huffed, “am I free of this inane conversation yet? Turn on the device, let’s get this over with.”

Bulma heaved in a deep breath and blew it out noisily through her nostrils. She reached up, gripping the back of Vegeta’s head, and placed the pad of her pointer finger against the glass sensor on the circlet.

Everyone stepped back as it began to hum.


	52. Chapter 52

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Author’s Notes: Guys, every time I mention Chiaotzu I have to go back and reference what spelling of his name I’m using…and it turns out I’ve spelled it about 5 different ways.

Last time: _Goku picked beans with the nameks, while Krillin, Eighteen, and some of the other Red Ship crewmembers went on a short trip to a nearby planet, Narmis, for supplies and wedding stuff. Eighteen ran into someone from the past and their location might soon become public knowledge. Back on Tech-Tech, Bulma finished her latest ki-draining circlet prototype, and brought it down to the boys for testing._

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Bulma inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air, and blew it out noisily. Behind Vegeta, the saiyans were tense and silent. Piccolo watched, quiet and unreadable as ever, and Zarbon leaned forward over Gohan, as though he could force the device to work through sheer force of will. He, more than anyone else in the room, was truly desperate to see Frieza dead.

Steeling herself, Bulma reached up to grip the back of Vegeta’s head. She placed the pad of her pointer finger against the glass sensor on the ki-draining circlet and pressed down firmly, allowing it to scan her fingerprint.

Everyone stepped back as it began to hum to life. A second later they heard a faint clicking sound as the hooks engaged, puncturing the skin. A bead of blood slipped out from beneath the circlet and rolled down over Vegeta’s forehead, disappearing in the thicket of his right eyebrow. One followed on the left shortly after, curving down over his cheekbone, and Bulma knew it must be dribbling through the hair at the sides and back of his head as well. The hooks were not all that deep, but head wounds were always bloody.

“What. The. Fuck.” Radditz said, squinting hard at Vegeta. He tapped his own temples, as though trying to jolt his senses back to life. “I can hardly feel your ki.” He looked wildly around and the rest of the group, who were all staring in astonishment. “I can always feel it, it’s like it just disappeared.”

“Still there,” Gohan clarified, “but so low. Like it’s not enough to even fly or form blasts.” His face was pale and he didn’t seem to realize that he’d backed up so far he was pressed into Zarbon’s legs.

“Scouter? Does anyone have a scouter?” Zarbon asked, looking around frantically. He’d started training to sense ki but didn’t really trust his own abilities yet.

“Vegeta?” Bulma asked, stepping closer. He hadn’t said anything yet, but she could see the tension in him, jaw muscles clenched and fists tight at his sides.  Beads of sweat had sprung up across his forehead and upper lip, and there was an unhealthy, grayish pallor to his skin.

Vegeta raised an arm, palm flat and outward facing, as though to gather his energy there. Nothing. He narrowed his eyes and stood still, breathing heavily through his nose as he concentrated, and still nothing. Pink-tinged sweat rolled down his forehead, and he gritted his teeth against pain that lanced through his temples every time he tried to power up.

“It’s working!” Bulma breathed a sigh of relief and clapped her hands together.

Vegeta turned and walked into the center of the training mats. He bent his knees and launched himself upward, easily tapping the ceiling with his hand. He managed to hover there a moment before landing with a thump on the mat, though they could all see the strain it caused.

“It doesn’t completely eliminate ki, only dampens it. It also doesn’t have any effect on physical strength. The ki-drain will make you feel a bit sick and sluggish, I’m sure, but if you went hand to hand with one of these guys,” Bulma gestured at the crowd, “it’d be very similar to any other time you spar without powering up.”

“Hn,” Vegeta grunted, nodding. He phased out, moving so quickly that he was barely a blur, and reappeared to drive one booted foot right into Radditz’s left kidney. The bigger saiyan fell to his knees with a yelp, back arching as pain rocketed through him. “So Frieza will not be helpless.”

“Right,” Bulma answered, wondering whether she should attempt to help Radditz to his feet. “You’ll still have to be on guard. I’m sure that even with the crown on, Frieza won’t go down without a fight.”

“Good,” Vegeta said, darkly. “I’ve waited too long for this battle, and I intend to get some satisfaction out of killing that worm.”

“Okay, well c’mere and let me turn the circlet off. I still need to code everyone else’s prints in.” Bulma decided to ignore Radditz; everyone else was, and she didn’t think she could haul him up on her own. Besides that, he seemed to prefer where he was for the moment.

“Not yet.” Vegeta wiped at the sweat on his forehead, staining the back of his glove. Close up, Bulma could smell the metallic tang of blood; it had begun to crust in his hair, but the neck of his battlesuit was dark and sticky looking. “I intend to put this thing through its paces.”

Vegeta walked back to the centre of the mat, ignoring the sick, bottomless feeling in his stomach. Even though he knew it was a temporary result of the thing on his head, the feeling of not being able to reach his power was unnerving. It was more than just the physical sensation created by the crown – an empty sort of nausea – but the way his mind could not seem to come to terms with it.

He tried to power up again and when the energy did not come, Vegeta felt the tiniest flutterings of panic deep in his stomach. He’d seen men go into shock with the loss of limbs, and he felt like he must be experiencing something similar. His power had been with him all his life, how could he suddenly not access it?

Vegeta forced his breath to slow and told himself to calm down. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck from side to side, feeling the additional weight, however slight, of the crown on his head. Its presence helped his confused animal brain to make sense of it all.

This was Bulma’s parlour trick and nothing more. If he kept that in mind, he’d be just fine.

That reassuring thought did nothing to stop the sudden dampness of his palms, or the sweat that trickled down his back.

“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Gohan asked, as they watched Vegeta plant his feet in the center of the mat.

“Looks like it,” Nappa said, shrugging. Next to him, Bulma groaned. “Well he’s gotta test it,” Nappa said, crossing his arms in defense of the prince. “You think Frieza’s going to let that thing just sit on his head and zap all his strength? Pah!”

“I know, I know.” Bulma peered anxiously at Vegeta as he bent at the knees, really sinking into his stance.

“Anyway, he’ll have that hunk of crap in pieces the second he goes Super Saiyan.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, idiot,” Bulma muttered. She firmly ignored Nappa’s growl and glare, and shot the gaping Zarbon a smile and a wink. He just shook his head in astonishment, before refocusing on the struggling saiyan. Crown or no crown, Nappa would never dare lay a finger on her for fear of Vegeta. “And it’s not a hunk of crap, it’s an amazing piece of technology created by a brilliant and beautiful woman.”

She turned her nose up at Nappa’s snort. “A mouthy old crone,” he countered, “who builds pieces of garbage.”

“Yeah, like my crappy spaceships, my dumb ghost drive, and my super shitty gravity simulator. That thing is the worst.” Bulma rolled her eyes and Nappa simply growled in response. “Yeah, thought so,” she added, smugly.

“Must you squabble like children at every turn?” Piccolo grumbled, turning his sharp eyes away from the saiyan prince to glare at the feuding pair. Bulma gaped openly, her mouth working as she struggled for a response that wasn’t “he started it” and Nappa snarled, looking ready to attack. A sudden frisson of energy startled them all, refocusing their attention and halting the impending brawl.

Vegeta was on his hands and knees in the middle of the mat, slick with sweat and crackling with ki.

.

.

Krillin breathed a sigh of relief to see the ship intact and undisturbed, the docking bay bustling as usual with no sign of upheaval. He’d been fighting down panic since Eighteen’s call for everyone to return. Tien and Sixteen were right behind him as they made their way to the ship, trying to move quickly without drawing undue attention.

“We must leave as soon as possible,” Eighteen said, meeting the boys at the ship’s ramp. “I have already finished half of the pre-flight checklist. Sixteen, are there any necessary supplies that have not been purchased yet?”

“What’s going on?” Krillin barged in, dropping his suit bag carelessly on the ground as he raced up the ramp. He grabbed Eighteen’s hands, looked her up and down, let go to pat her down in his search for injuries.

“I procured them all yesterday. It was my most important task, and therefore my first,” Sixteen said, ignoring the outburst.

“Good, everyone inside.” Eighteen spun, stepping quickly out of Krillin’s grasp, and returned up the ramp. Krillin followed helplessly along, leaving Tien to scoop up the forgotten suit.

“Where’s Mrs. Briefs? Is she okay? Is anyone hurt?” Krillin asked frantically, looking around for Bulma’s mother.

“Mrs. Briefs is fine, she is securing items in the bedrooms. No one is hurt.” She did not meet his eyes, but stared over his head, looking around the cabin as she organized plans in her head. “Sixteen, please go and settle our docking fees. I am going to check the engines,” Eighteen continued. “Tien, Krillin, please secure the cargo. We do not have time to waste in discussion, I will explain later.” Eighteen’s voice was mechanical, and Krillin flinched back, stung by her distance.

“Yeah um, sure.” Krillin deflated like a popped balloon, slinking off to the hull while Tien followed. In the cargo hold, Krillin attacked the job, shifting and organizing crates with manic energy. “Good thing we restocked food and medical stores first, I guess,” he said loudly, with false cheer.

“I’ll put your suit here,” Tien said, hanging the garment bag carefully on a bolted in wire rack. Inside the clear, heavy duty plastic, they could see that the jacket hung crookedly and the pants had slipped off of the hanger. They sat in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the bag, pins sticking haphazardly out in all directions.

 “Yep,” Krillin’s smile was tight as he tore his eyes from the suit, “good thing we left the unimportant things for last.”

Tien set down the other parcels he was still carrying. He picked up a pile of thick straps and began sorting one out from the tangle. Krillin opened up one of the medical supply crates and busied himself making sure that everything inside was packed properly, and that all the fragile items were well padded. He wrapped glass medicine bottles and syringes in soft towels, and taped a box of microscope slides securely shut before closing the crate.

“Eighteen seems worried,” Tien said, handing Krillin the first freed strap. “It’s been a while since she’s been such a robot about anything.”

Krillin took the strap silently, and began loading smaller crates onto the rack. He kept his eyes resolutely away from the suitbag, embarrassed by how blissfully happy he’d been just an hour ago at the store. He was so desperately, heartbreakingly in love, and Eighteen was…Eighteen. She’d decided to marry him, half ordered him to do it, if he was being honest, but he wondered what was really going on in her head. He’d bounded in full of worry, pawing and whimpering at her like a devoted puppy, while she’d hardly spared him a glance.

Tien’s words were meant to dull the sting of her chilly reception, but they were like a slap to the face. Eighteen WAS sort of a robot, wasn’t she? No matter how much she resembled a human, she wasn’t. And that didn’t matter to Krillin, it never had. He loved her, deeply. He just wasn’t sure she felt the same.

He wasn’t sure she was even capable of feeling the same.

.

“Is everything okay?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Yul looked across the table, snapped from her thoughts by her date. Poor, darling Crane watched her with worry from his own seat. She could feel the anxiety rolling off of him, his sense that maybe he’d done something wrong. “I was just thinking about that woman from the shop. I’m certain I know her from somewhere, and I just can’t figure it out.” She smiled and twirled a lock of hair around her finger, reaching out as though to place her other hand over his and laying it instead just near, within reaching distance.

Her practiced coyness was not lost on Crane, who blushed and stretched his own fingers to brush across hers. Yul was charmed by his sweetness, and wished her own was even a little bit real.

If she kept her mouth shut, maybe one day it could be.

“Yul, you can tell me anything. I hope you know that.” Crane was holding her hand in earnest, half stretched across the table in the effort. He was like a pet, so innocent and eager to please.

“I know, darling, I know.” Yul fluttered her eyelashes, and wondered whether she should tell him what she knew. If she kept it all to herself, life could go on as it was, she could live in bliss on this backwater planet with Crane.

Knowledge of the reward on offer itched like parasites beneath her skin. The money gained from selling her dead friends’ treasures would not last forever, and while Crane worked a respectable job, his pay was modest. They could live on it, but certainly not in luxury.

The money would come, but so would Frieza’s soldiers, if she contacted them with information on one of Vegeta’s accomplices. The Empire would trample this little planet and wreck everything she’d built for herself. Country-quiet peace didn’t last very long once soldiers came through. They spread fear and corruption like a sickness.

Fuck that blonde bitch! Yul ground her teeth, half wishing she’d never realized where that hit of recognition had come from. If she hadn’t figured it out, she would be enjoying her day in ignorance. Crane squeezed her hand, and she looked up at him, thinking of how much she’d like to talk to someone about it. Someone who wouldn’t fly impulsively off the handle, who’d think it over seriously, even if he was naive as all hell.

“Sweetie,” Yul said, looking around the table to ensure that none of the other diners were close enough to hear them. “If I tell you a secret, will you keep it?”

.

The ship broke through Narmis’ atmosphere with one final jolt, and a second or two of weightlessness set in before the artificial gravity kicked in. Eighteen allowed herself a moment of calm, and then the ship’s computer let out three cheerful blips, indicating that it was safe to unstrap. A cursory glance at the dash told her that Sixteen had everything under control.

“So,” Tien said above the clink and clatter of unbuckling, “something go belly-up down there, or what?”

“Oh, we just had a lovely day,” Mrs. Briefs gushed. “Such a shame we had to cut it short.” She freed herself from her restraints and smoothed the wrinkles from her clothing. “Well, I think I should make us all a snack. Who’s hungry?” She tottered from the room on her feathered mules, without waiting for an answer.

"I apologize for my rushed instructions,” Eighteen said as unclasped her own buckles and stood, “but as I mentioned, our location may have been compromised.” She frowned at the group, feeling agitation creeping up again. It was a foreign feeling for her, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“How bad is it?” Tien leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees.

“I am uncertain if we were actually recognized or not. On Harbour Colony, there were three women that tried to come aboard with you, Roshi, and Oolong, do you recall?” Eighteen asked her elder brother.

“I recall.” Sixteen nodded his big head once, and Krillin had to stop himself from laughing at the memory of Roshi and Oolong trying to convince the rest of the crew that the three “dancers” were also warriors capable of helping in their quest to defeat Frieza.

“The one with six breasts is on Narmis,” Eighteen continued. “She insisted that she knew me from somewhere but I do not believe she realized it immediately. It is possible she will not realize it, but I could not be certain of the probability.”

“Yul,” Sixteen said.

“How’d she get all the way here?” Krillin asked.

“She probably got a big pile of credits for ratting us out last time,” Tien snorted. “How else do you think word got out that we’d been on Harbour Colony?”

“Good point.” Krillin agreed. “Though according to the radio chatter it got pretty rough there as a result. Maybe she’ll stay quiet this time?”

“I think you’re giving more credit than is due. Despite the Goku factor, not everyone comes over to the good side.” Tien smirked and crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat.

 “What is the Goku factor?” Sixteen asked, curious. Despite their close quarters and his heavy involvement in the Earth-sayian’s medical treatment, Sixteen did not really know Goku all that well. He suspected that his affections for Chichi had made things awkward.

 “The uncanny ability of that idiot to get enemies on his side.” Tien rolled his eyes and jabbed his thumb into his own chest. “Me, for one.”

 “Oolong and Puar. Yamcha and Chiaotzu, rest their souls,” Krillin ticked them off on his fingers, laughing with the memories of their adventures on Earth. “Piccolo, anyone else?”

 “Father,” Sixteen said, intending to join in on the fun, but his tone had a rather dampening effect. “In a way.”

 “Yeah, that’s right. By all accounts he was pretty pissed when Goku did in the Red Ribbon Army, but Gero still let us come stay here.” Tien shook his head.

 “Does that one count? We didn’t have Goku when we showed up,” Krillin pointed out. And then, grinning, he said “I like to think it was my charisma that won him over.”

 “It was Bulma,” Sixteen said bluntly, not getting the joke. “He knew how smart she was, and he wanted her and Dr. Briefs to help him with his research and projects.”

 "I’m going to send a message to Red.” Eighteen turned to the console. “The others need to be warned as quickly as possible so they can start making preparations.”

.

.

Vegeta’s teeth were clenched so tightly he feared his jaw might break. Every muscle in his body was taut, trembling, rock hard to the point of pain. Black stars swam in his vision and he felt his arms and legs shaking with the effort of staying up. _Do not pass out._ Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut and the sound of his own breath pounded through his ears, a wheezing rasp that burned his lungs even as it kept him alive.

With each second that passed, each tiny bit of power he managed to draw, the sick feeling in his stomach intensified and spread. Even down on all fours, he swayed with dizziness, fighting to remain upright, and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat.

Energy cracked and coiled around his body, blood trickled down his forehead in a slow drip to the mat. Vegeta was soaked in sweat, could feel it pooling in the small of his back, could smell it steaming off of his clothing with the heat of ki that surrounded him. He dug his fingers into the training mat and forced more energy up and out. His body felt on fire, and he screamed aloud in pain as a wave of energy fizzed up from his stomach, shocking like lava through his veins. The stink of burning rubber was hot in his nostrils and he knew his palms had seared right through his gloves and through the mat, lit from within just like the two times he’d nearly killed himself trying to ascend to Super Saiyan.

The pit of his power felt sore and raw, with ragged edges like a torn wound and still he pushed, pulled, grabbed and yanked more from it. His throat was hoarse with screaming, vocal cords swollen and bruised and wound tight, ready to snap like every other tendon in his body.

The ki was there. Vegeta could _feel_ it, roiling and bubbing inside him, but he couldn’t seem to reach it. He couldn’t _do_ anything with it.

He had a vague sense of the others in the room, but he could not hear or see them over the roaring in his brain. Vegeta could not see the pale, frightened faces of his followers, nor the tears streaming down Gohan’s cheeks. He could not hear Bulma shrieking at him to stop as she struggled against Radditz, who held her back from the crackling danger in the center of the mat. He did not see Zarbon sink to the floor with disbelief when the flickers of gold came on and died again.

Vegeta did not feel it when his own power gave out. He did not feel the wretched cramping in his stomach as it heaved up its contents, nor did he feel the crack of his own nose against the floor as his body gave out and crumpled beneath him. He was blissfully unaware while Nappa and Radditz pried his burned hands from the floor, peeling melted rubber from the wounds, though he let loose a low moan when Bulma was finally allowed by the others to get near enough to deactivate the crown.

Life seemed to rush back into the room the second the device quieted. There was a final squelch and snikt of the spikes as they pulled from Vegeta’s scalp and returned to their housings within the circlet.

Bulma wrinkled her nose as she eased the blood-slick crown from Vegeta’s head. She was careful not to drop it as she wiped the worst of the smears from it and set it back in its padded case. Vegeta’s puncture wounds were still oozing red, opened anew by the withdrawal mechanism, and she grabbed a clean rag to blot some of the blood away.

“Fuck’n…thing...” Vegeta muttered, followed by something unintelligible. Possibly Saiyan, possibly Standard, it was too slurred to tell.

“You pushed it too hard,” Bulma said, even though she wasn’t sure how conscious he actually was. He’d passed out and was showing some signs of surfacing, but he still seemed pretty out of it. She smoothed a red-slicked spike of hair back from his forehead and blotted again at the line of punctures that disappeared into the hair at his temples. “You need time to recover.”

“Fsh...coddling…’nnoying woman.” He replied, opening his eyes with great effort so she could see them roll in annoyance. “You…’mfine.” He stared at her in a fuzzy, unfocused way and she raised one eyebrow in inquiry.

“Oh, fine, are you? Alright, get on up.” Bulma stood in one fluid motion and gestured for him to do the same. When he failed to follow suit she balled up the bloodstained rag and dropped it right on his chest. He hissed in annoyance but did not move beyond some halfhearted squirming. “I need some alcohol swabs to clean this thing properly,” she said, bending to pick up the circlet case. “So if one or two of you can haul his sorry butt to the med bay, I’ll prep a regen tank for you. The head and palm wounds are superficial, but I want to make sure there’s no lasting internal damage from the experience. He was suffering pretty badly last time he was unable to get all that energy out. Plus I think his nose is broken.”

“When my nose was broken, you said it was a waste of resources,” Zarbon groused.

“Well if you’d like to test the crown, I’d be happy to put you in a tank afterward. I would love to test on another species of ki-user.” Bulma fluttered her lashes and Zarbon looked uneasily at the case in her hands. “We can have one of the boys here mash your face in, so it’ll heal better this time.”

Zarbon stepped back and reached up to touch the bump in the bridge of his nose, almost unconsciously. “You know, I’ve recently decided that this gives my face character,” he said, and Bulma laughed. She turned to follow Nappa, who’d thrown Vegeta over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Bulma was about to mention that “haul” was meant to be a figure of speech, but then decided she didn’t have the time or energy to be the keeper of Vegeta’s dignity.

In the med bay, she programmed the tank while Nappa stripped Vegeta of his battlesuit. The prince was still slipping in and out of consciousness, and Bulma took the opportunity to make a few notes on his health. His internal temperature was high but his skin felt cold to touch, like a fire was burning inside but was being insulated somehow. “Huh,” she muttered, lifting his lids to shine a penlight in his eyes, “his pupils aren’t shrinking in the light like they should. Like a concussion, but I don’t think he really hit his head so much. The nose broke the fall.” She turned the light off and palmed it, then leaned in to take a closer look at the body part in question. The bridge was swollen and she could see the beginnings of bruising around his inner eyes.

“If that contraption gave him brain damage, I’m holding you responsible,” Nappa warned. “You done yet?” He clearly wanted to get Vegeta in the tank as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Bulma put the flashlight down and held her empty hands up. “He’s all yours, big guy. The tank will give me the rest of the vital signs and internal reports I need.” She opened another cupboard and pulled out a box of alcohol wipes and a jar of sterile swabs, then flipped the catches on her case and lifted out the circlet.

“Want it to be nice and clean for Frieza?” Nappa curled a lip and glared as she began to wipe the crusted blood from her device, taking special care with swabs around the joints and seams.

“It’s not for Frieza, dummy. I need to open this up again to check the components inside and see how it all held up. You know, make sure Vegeta didn’t blow any fuses, so to speak.” Bulma frowned as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit of crust. “I’m not going to take any chances of some nasty, dried up old blood getting all over my circuitboards. “Wouldn’t that be great, if it goes into battle and shorts out because Vegeta’s blood has fouled a critical connection?”

“You know one thing I miss about being in the Empire?” Nappa asked, and of course continued without giving Bulma the opportunity to answer. “The fucking techs kept their mouths shut.”

“Why are you still here?” Bulma shot back, and ignored his returning growl. “As much as I love your company, Nappa, I’m sure you have so many super-critical things you must be doing.”

“You’re right, I have an important appointment with your mom’s pussy.” Nappa towered over her, a nasty grin splitting his ugly face. Bulma rolled her eyes; she’d seen his posturing a million times before.

“If by ‘my mom’ you mean ‘your own hand with some lipstick on it’ then have at ‘er.” Bulma set the circlet down on the table, tossed her swab in the garbage can, and turned to face him. She crossed her arms and stood tall.

“Fucking bitch, if you weren’t Vegeta’s…”

“Speaking of Vegeta I thought you were going to get him in the tank. I won’t keep you, I’d hate to disrupt your busy schedule of eating, farting, and mastur-”

“Will both of you shut the fuck up?” Vegeta snarled. Conscious again, he’d managed to sit up on the exam table without them noticing. He was blinking owlishly, slumped over and clearly disoriented, but at least moving under his own power. “Like…children.” Vegeta pitched dangerously forward, and Nappa abandoned his spat with Bulma to catch his prince.

“The tank is prepped,” Nappa said, stepping back to assist Vegeta to the floor.

“Don’t need it.” Vegeta shoved Nappa’s hands away and slid from the table, though Nappa had to catch him again when he swayed sideways faster than his legs could balance him.

“Just an hour or two, Vegeta, to rest up.” Bulma crossed the room and arranged the various tubes and monitors in the tank for quick attachment. “You’re exhausted, and you might be suffering some internal damage from the trapped ki.”

Vegeta looked like he was about to protest, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped for just a second before regaining himself. He felt heavy and weak, woozy in the way he often got after taking a severe beating.

“Fine,” he snapped, though the sting was considerably dampened by the tired slur of his mouth. He allowed Nappa to hover over him as he shuffled slowly to the waiting tank, and sneered at Bulma as she watched him submit to the breathing mask.

“Thanks,” Bulma said, extending the olive branch after the tank began to fill. “I couldn’t have gotten him up here on my own.”

“I have been taking care of the prince since he was a cub. It’s not your place to thank me.” Nappa glowered at her, huffing as though utterly insulted. Which, Bulma supposed, he was.

“Okay, okay, truce. Jeez, you’re so fucking sensitive. Other people care about Vegeta too, get over yourself.”

“Gods, I would love to punch you through a wall,” Nappa muttered, shaking his head. He stared at Vegeta, floating peacefully in the tank. “I pray for the day he wakes up from whatever madness has endeared you to him,” he said, even though they were both pretty sure that Vegeta wasn’t going to get sick of her any time soon.

“I get it, first in line to punch me through a wall.” Bulma pasted on a big, fake smile as Nappa grumbled his way from the room. As soon as he was gone, she groaned and put her head in her hands. “How the hell is this normal?” she asked aloud.

The tank bubbled and Bulma looked up, glaring, to make sure Vegeta wasn’t actually laughing at her from in there. His eyes were still closed. “This is all your fault, you know,” she said to him, narrowing her eyes as the tank bubbled again. If he was awake, he was doing a damn good job of disguising it. Shaking her head, she turned back to the circlet on the counter and reached for a fresh swab. “Goddamn saiyans.”

.

.

I desperately want to see Nappa resurrected somehow in Dragonball Super, just so I can watch him try to pull shit with Bulma. 

 


	53. Chapter 53

Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he’s decided to share them with.

Last time: _The supply crew leaves Narmis because Eighteen was spotted by someone who can place her as part of Vegeta’s team. Yul, the 6-breasted dancer from Harbour Colony contemplates alerting the authorities. Back on Tech-Tech, Vegeta ends up in the regen tank after testing out Bulma’s ki-draining circlet._

_THIS IS AN NC-17 RATED CHAPTER. IF YOU’D LIKE TO READ AN EDITED, M RATED VERSION, PLEASE HEAD OVER TO FANFICTION.NET AND FIND ME UNDER THE SAME PEN NAME._

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“I hate getting called back to the ship.” Recoome flopped heavily onto the couch in the common area of the Burter Brigade quarters. “It’s so boring here.” He stretched his massive body over the cushions and laced his hands together to crack his knuckles.

“Stop whining,” Guldo said, sneering at his comrade. “You forget how lucky we are that Lord Frieza-“

“ _You’re_ lucky,” Jeice interrupted. “The rest of us earned the right to be here.” He slapped a high-five onto Recoome’s outstretched hand as he passed, to park himself on the other end of the couch. Jeice shoved Recoome’s legs out of the way and Recoome grunted, kicking back.

“I have as much right to be here as you!” Guldo shouted, but as usual, no one paid him any mind. They were too busy roughhousing to even notice that he was still talking.

“Get your fucking feet offa me, Recoome.” Jeice was trying to shove the bigger man’s massive legs away but they were heavy, and backed up by brute strength. “They stink.”

“I was here first,” came the pouted reply.

“Well maybe there’d be more than one couch, if you hadn’t cannonballed into the other one and smashed it to bits. You’ve got to share, you overgrown meathead!” Jeice gave another shove.

“Make me.” Recoome sat up, and Jeice shifted, coiling his body to spring.

“Children! You’re nothing but overgrown children!” Guldo shook his head. “I hope you both die in a fire.” He missed Ginyu so much.

“Well of course you do,” Jeice said, forgetting his feud with Recoome so easily. “It’s the only way you’ll ever move up in the squad.” He grinned and Recoome delivered another high five, guffawing like an idiot.

“Fuck you guys!” Guldo shouted, taking a big breath and clamping his mouth shut.

“What the?” Jeice grimaced as he realized his finger was two knuckles deep in Recoome’s nose. He most certainly hadn’t put it there himself, and of course Guldo was nowhere to be seen. “That little shithead space toad fucker,” he swore, yanking his hand back and trying to ignore the slime that coated his glove. Recoome grunted in surprise, as though it was only just occurring to him that Jeice’s finger hadn’t always been a part of his anatomy. “These were new.” Jeice yanked the gloves off, balled them up, and threw them in the trash. “How far do you figure he could have gotten on one breath?” Jeice asked, poking his head out the door into the hall.

“Dunno.” Recoome was rubbing his nose, still a little confused over the whole ordeal. “Why’d you do that?”

“Are you an idiot? Guldo did it, with his cheater-face, time-stopping bullshit.”

“Oh.” Recoome said, but it was plain he didn’t quite grasp it.

“Ugh, whatever.” Jeice flipped his hair over his shoulder and stalked back to the couch. “Where’s the remote? All My Starsystems should be on right about now. Layla and Faxnor’s wedding is for sure going to get interrupted by her evil quintuplet sisters.”

.

Frieza steepled his fingers together, and stared out into space over the pointed black tips of his nails. His gaze flickered downward and he sighed. He was desperately in need of a manicure, he thought, as he noted the chipped edges and dull, lifeless surface of his once-shiny fingernails. They needed a good buffing, and his cuticles were an outright disaster.

“Do you give a good manicure?” he asked Burter, who flinched in surprise at the absurd question. “No, look at your hands, of course you don’t.” Frieza sniffed and took a sip of his wine. “This one here is useless,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him, to where his latest assistant stood. She didn’t react to the insult. Her face was perfectly still and blank, and Burter wasn’t sure if that meant she was strong, or if it meant she was already broken.

“Apologies, my Lord,” Burter said. “I could polish your skull plate to a fine gloss, but fingernails are beyond my expertise.” He spared a quick look at the assistant’s hands, but she wore the standard issue white gloves over her golden skin. Her hair was a pale mint colour, and there was something Zarbonish about the tilt of her mouth. Burter wondered how long she would last.

“Zarbon used to do it,” Frieza said petulantly, ignoring Burter’s words. “He used to spend hours buffing and polishing to perfection, rubbing oils into the cuticles, massaging it into my hands.” Frieza trailed off and Burter grit his teeth against the wormy discomfort in his belly. “He liked it when my hands were soft and pretty.” Burter clenched his fists and all over his body, muscles clenched with the effort of staying in place. Frieza’s dreamy, faraway voice turned flat and bitter. “He said it felt nicer, when I touched him.” The assistant behind the chair made a startled, choking noise but regained her composure quickly and if Frieza had noticed, he ignored it. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Burter, taking him in from head to toe.

Burter swallowed, sudden fear cutting him to the core. There was something dangerous lurking in Frieza’s gaze, something that made Burter’s skin crawl. “He was a traitor, my Lord. He deserved his punishment,” he said, deliberately playing dumb. It was no secret in the upper echelons that Frieza had been enamoured of his pretty general. With the recent string of replacements, it was quickly becoming obvious that the obsession ran deep.

“I gave him so much,” Frieza said, and Burter remained silent. He’d known about Frieza and Zarbon for years and beyond mild jealousy, it had never really bothered him. The prospect of actually _having_ Zarbon for himself had never been real enough.

“He was unworthy. A worm,” Burter said, and was surprised a split second later to find Frieza bearing down on him.

“He was EVERYTHING to me!” Frieza shrieked, delivering an open-palmed slap to Burter’s cheek that sent the captain reeling. He stumbled and fell to his knees, but wisely stayed down on the floor. His cheek throbbed painfully, and he could feel it begin to swell. Behind the throne, Frieza’s golden woman watched with carefully blank eyes, as Burter cowered before their master.  

“He was mine. MINE.” Frieza stood above Burter’s crouched form, heaving with rage. “Make no mistake, I will have him back,” Frieza said, and Burter felt his skin crawl at the tone of abject longing that fed his master’s fury. “And when I do, I will make it so he can never betray me again.”

.

“You look pale, boss-man,” Jeice said, from his spot on the living room floor. “You know, ‘cept for that bit.” He gestured at Burter’s swollen cheek and the angry bruise that was spreading beneath his scaly skin. Recoome sat cross-legged beside Jeice, and behind the pair of them, the couch lay in ruins.

“What happened to the couch?’ Burter asked. Then he caught sight of the television and groaned. “Nevermind,” he said. “Were you two arguing about this fucking soap opera again?”

“…No.” Jeice said, unconvincingly.

“How many times is this going to happen?”

“Until this punk admits that Fiona and Faxnor belong together,” Recoome grumbled.

“Can you believe this meathead?” Jeice exploded, jumping up from his position on the floor. “Fiona is one of the evil quintuplets! She’s been trying to murder Layla since they were babies, and she only wants Faxnor because it will hurt Layla!”

“You’re wrong about that. She only pretends but she’s really deeply in love. And Faxnor would love her too, if that prissy child Layla wasn’t there.”

“Love? She poisoned him last season!”

“Pah, he was only in a coma! If she’d wanted to kill him, he’d have croaked.”

“I’m fucking done. I can’t handle you idiots today.” Burter turned and stomped from the room, shaking his head. He had no patience for the petty squabbles of his foolish subordinates, after watching Frieza’s meltdown.

“Boss?” Jeice called after him, but Burter retreated to his room, and mashed his fist against the door button. It slid closed with a whoosh and a ding to indicate that the lock was engaged. He kicked off his boots and yanked his armour up over his head, cursing in frustration when it caught on the tank top he wore beneath, with a tearing sound. Burter dropped the chest plate dropped to the floor with a satisfying thunk, tore the rest of his ruined shirt away, and whipped it at the garbage can…and missed. He stood, bare chested and heaving, in the center of his bedroom, wanting to scream.

“Fucking Zarbon,” he hissed, “that fucking fuck.” Burter threw himself into his desk chair, but instead of turning on his computer, he braced his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. He had to get himself under control. Hell, he didn’t really know why he was out of control in the first place.

The scene with Frieza had caught Burter off guard. He’d gone in expecting to deliver a mission report, maybe weather a bit of a tantrum about his failure to find Vegeta. But then again, he should have known better than to think he could anticipate the master’s moods and actions.

Frieza was mental, always kind of had been, and everybody knew it. He offed an average of three servants per week, for offenses as trivial as messing up his breakfast order. Just that morning, a kitchen girl had been disintegrated for preparing his Highness’ toast with krendelberry jelly, instead of krendelberry jam.

It was no surprise that he was frothing at the mouth over Zarbon’s desertion. And disconcerting as it was to watch the parade of not-quite-Zarbons making their way through Frieza’s bedchamber, it didn’t keep Burter up at night. He looked out for his own ass, and that was about it. Maybe Jeice’s too, because they were sort of friends, and Reccoome’s, but only if it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.

It all came back to that gods-be-damned asshole, Zarbon. There was little chance now of giving him a clean death. All along, Burter had known he’d rather slit Zarbon’s throat than hand him back to Frieza but now…well. It was clear that whoever dared to take away Frieza’s revenge would soon be answering to the emperor. And as much as he didn’t want Zarbon to end up back in the torture chambers, he wasn’t about to write himself a one-way ticket down there either.

“Fucking Zarbon,” he said again, refusing to give in to the creeping sense of discomfort in his belly. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

.

“If I tell you a secret, will you keep it?” Yul leaned over her salad to get close to Crane, who sat across the table. She took a quick glance around the restaurant to see if other diners might be listening, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind.

“Of course, I would never tell,” Crane said, reaching out to grasp her hands. He watched her look around, eyes narrowed and suspicious, a little bit afraid. Her fingers twitched in his hand, and he squeezed them in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. She’d been acting oddly ever since the dress shop, distant and jumpy. And though she was obviously trying to cover it up, Crane had spent many hours staring adoringly at this woman; he could tell something was upsetting her deeply.

“That woman,” she swallowed thickly and looked down at the table, “at the dress shop.” Yul paused and Crane squeezed her hand. “If she’s here, then Vegeta probably isn’t far off.”

“V…Vegeta?” Crane gaped at his companion, wondering if he’d heard wrong. That certainly was not what he had been expecting. Despite the sunny act she put on, he’d long since figured out that Yul had a past…he just never thought it’d involve one of the most wanted men in the galaxy. “You mean…?”

“Yeah. That guy,” Yul said, nodding. Her lips were pressed tightly together, a thin slash across her face, and Crane could see faint lines where her face powder had settled in the fine creases around her mouth. Beneath her makeup, Yul was pale but her cheeks flamed. She looked feverish.

“And how is everything here?” Yul and Crane sprang apart like a pair of guilty teenagers as their waiter swooped in to refresh their water glasses.

“F…fine, just fine,” Crane stammered. He locked eyes with Yul, though neither could look at the waiter. He took a breath, and tried to still his sudden nerves. “Everything is fine.” He squeezed her hand, and after a long, tense moment, she squeezed his back.

.

.

Frieza sighed as the door to his bathing chamber whooshed open. He was resting in his favourite spot, submerged to the neck with his head resting on the tub’s ledge. His eyes were closed, and he did not open them even as the intruder stepped inside and waited to be recognized. He knew exactly who it was – she was the only one with access to his chambers, other than himself.

“What is it?” Frieza finally snapped, after a painful stretch of silence while Aprika, his latest aide, waited to be recognized. She was cold, hard, and quiet, speaking only when necessary and even then with reserve. Frieza didn’t know if he loved it or hated it.

“My Lord, we have just received an intelligence report that places Vegeta’s allies in the Pallas system. Some backwater trade planet called Narmis.”

Frieza opened his eyes and stared blankly at Aprika. She wore full armour but her golden feet were bare, as she’d dutifully left her boots outside the bathing chamber. Frieza’s eyes lingered on her clawed toes. She was standing in a puddle, a dip in the floor where the tiles had settled. He knew the golden scales that covered her feet ended up around her knees, melting into the softer skin of her thighs. Her hands and forearms, beneath the long uniform gloves, were the same.

“Intelligence from whom?” He asked, skimming pale fingers over the water’s glassy surface. Frieza had hardly moved in the last hour. The vid-walls were a flat grey, and the sound system churned out white noise, an almost disturbing hum that rattled Aprika’s bones and made her scalp prickle.

“The source is dubious at best, Lord Frieza. If I may?” she asked, gesturing at the wall. At Frieza’s nod, Aprika stepped to a control panel near the door. A moment later, the intelligence report popped up on the vid screen to Frieza’s right. “Secondhand knowledge. The source has learned that a woman was seen on Narmis, who was seen in Vegeta’s company on Harbour Colony.”

Frieza breathed heavily through his nose and Aprika tensed. She had debated heavily with herself over whether to bring this to Frieza’s bathing chamber. Normally she was under strict orders not to disturb him there unless requested, and she was happy to stay away. But he’d also made it clear that any information regarding Vegeta was to be brought to him immediately.

“I hate the Pallas system,” Frieza said, finally, and Aprika relaxed just a tiny bit. “Worthless collection of piddly little planets. No natural resources in quantities to be worth the bother, no strong races since we wiped out the Gralicans three hundred years ago. It’s a dump.”

“Your nearest outpost is in the Oncilla system,” Aprika supplied, and pulled up a map on the screen. “Right here.” Frieza frowned at his reflection in the water.

“That far away, eh?” he asked. “Makes it the perfect place for disloyal little weasels to hide. No wonder they’ve managed to stay off of my radars. Vegeta and those pea-brained Saiyans of his would fit right in with the ignorant bumpkins that breed at the far reaches.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Aprika did not mention that she came from Crepsa, in the Serval system, which was nearly as far away in the other direction. “Shall I have a team sent from the Oncilla base?”

“Yes, do that.” Frieza flicked the water petulantly with his fingers and huffed. “And tell the bridge to start us off in that direction.”

Aprika disappeared from sight with a nod and a quick salute, and the door whooshed shut behind her. If she’d been surprised by his desire to pursue this pathetic shred of information personally, she knew better than to show it.

Frieza stared at the intelligence report on the wall for a moment, before closing his eyes and turning away. He was getting sick of this little cat and mouse game – it was time for a show of strength. Vegeta would be long gone from the Pallas system (if he’d ever been there) by the time Frieza arrived, but there was nothing wrong with wreaking a little havoc with the grubby little star system.

The rumour of Vegeta’s location would break, and punishment for Narmis and all her neighbouring planets would follow. Nobody would dare shelter the monkey prince if they thought it might mean Frieza’s armada showing up at their doorstep. He would show the universe that any sort of rebellion, even the _suspicion_ of disloyalty, came with dire consequences.

.

.

Vegeta’s eyes came open slowly and he glared out at the room through the murky haze of regeneration fluid. He hated the feeling of the mask on his face, and the way the tubes and sensors hampered his movement.

Through the glass front of the tank, he could make out Bulma’s blurry form. It was dark in the infirmary, but the meek glow of the emergency lighting was enough for him to see the shaggy blue bun atop her head. She lay curled upon the padded examination table, covered by one of the modesty sheets the humans liked to use for medical examinations.

Vegeta reached out with his senses, grateful that they were working again, to feel her sleeping ki. The control panel chimed the end of the healing cycle and the tank gurgled as the regeneration fluid drained, but Bulma did not stir. Vegeta removed the breathing mask and peeled the sensor nodes from his skin, carefully coiling the tubing and wires back into place so they’d be ready for the next occupant.

The lock disengaged and Vegeta stepped from the tank onto the cold tile floor, naked and dripping. There was a fluffy, soft towel folded on the counter, waiting for him. He scoffed at that, glancing toward the sleeping woman on the table, but snatched it up and rubbed vigorously at his sopping wet hair. The astringent smell of the regeneration fluid clung to his skin, and he briskly dried his body, before wrapping the towel around his waist.

Vegeta crossed the floor on silent feet, and stopped beside the exam bed. The clock on the wall read two in the morning – the damn woman had told him just a few hours in the regen tank, but that had been just after lunch. Obviously the circlet had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit.

The memory of the experience sent a chill up his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid infirmary air. His eyes slid toward the black case on the counter, knowing the circlet was housed within. He never wanted that thing on his head, ever again.

Vegeta’s gaze drifted back toward Bulma, who slumbered on, unawares. She grumbled in her sleep and curled a little tighter into herself. He stared at her, and remembered the crush of pressure inside his skull, the feeling of his blood turning to steam within his veins, and the bone-deep sense of helplessness and futility her crown had engendered in him.

The moment the circlet had cut him off from his power, Vegeta realized that he’d been underestimating this woman since he’d first learned of her existence. He’d studied her from afar, learned of her activities and her tactics. When he met her he’d learned just how smart she was, how cunning and fearless. Up till that point in the training room, he’d not properly considered just how dangerous she could be. The idea of being scared of her had been ludicrous, laughable. But no longer.

Bulma Briefs was a fucking monster.

Vegeta flexed his muscles in the dim light, felt the spread of ki through his veins, in the tips of his fingers and toes, the point of his tail. He felt stronger than he had this morning. His heart beat hard in his chest, and he cracked his knuckles before reaching toward the sleeping woman on the exam table.

She wasn‘t the only monster in the room.

.

Bulma gasped awake as her body slid across the exam table, moved by power that was not her own. She surged up, sudden adrenaline driving away the last of her dreams and forcing her into consciousness. The rattle of the safety restraints echoed in the cold infirmary, freezing her for a moment. She was bound at the wrists, strapped to the table by the padded leather belts that were normally used to prevent a hysterical patient (AKA Goku) from thrashing too much.

She sat, panting, blood rushing in her ears, trying to make sense of what had happened. She’d been awake for all of three seconds. What the hell?

Bulma pulled on the restraints again, but they held fast. She gasped as a heavy hand clamped her shoulder, pushing her downward to lay on the table. Her shoulders hit the end, leaving her head to hang over the edge.

“Vegeta,” she said, and from her upside-down vantage point she could see that the tank was drained and empty. She’d slept through the cycle alarm. How long had he been out? He wasn’t dressed, naked but for the towel wrapped around his waist, and when he moved she caught the faint antiseptic whiff of regen fluid on his body.

“What are you doing?” Bulma asked, trying to sit up again but Vegeta’s hand held her fast to the table. With his other, he reached over and yanked her tank top up, bunching it above her breasts. Her face was practically buried in his towel-clad crotch, and she could feel his hardness pressing against her cheek through the terry cloth. She shivered as the cold air hit her skin, and her nipples puckered against the lace of her bra.

Vegeta’s hands were warm through the thin fabric, cupping and squeezing her breasts. Bulma squirmed and tugged against the straps again when his fingers turned cruel, pinching and rolling her nipples. A jolt of heat zipped through her veins and she groaned, feeling the sudden pulse between her legs.

“Vegeta!” she gasped. “Stop it, untie me!” She wanted to slap him silly at the same time as she wanted to pull him closer and dig her nails into his skin.

“Stop it?” Vegeta chuckled. “I can smell how much you want it.” He made a show of removing his hands from her body and took a step back, before crouching down so that his face was level with hers. She glared at him, upside down, and he smirked back at her. “Go ahead, deny it.” His fingers traced her jaw, swiped across her lips, and she thought about biting him. His other hand fisted in her hair, dislodging the elastic that held her mess of a bun in place. He bent and kissed her roughly, shoving his tongue deep into her mouth. She moaned against his lips, some part of her brain wanting to urge him on despite the indignity of her situation.

“I’m cruel, Bulma, but not made of stone. You have your pride. I won’t make you admit how much you want me to fuck you senseless.” His whispered words against her ear sent tingles across her scalp. She shivered and felt her insides clench with want. “What was that word you said earlier? Dragonball?”

Bulma’s eyes widened and she gaped at him, instantly divining the meaning in his eyes. “ _We need a safeword”_ , she’d said that morning, before agreeing to turn on the circlet. _“If you can’t stand it any longer, say ‘dragonball’ okay?”_

“D…” the word stuck in her throat as Vegeta stood and untied the towel from around his waist, revealing his hard, naked body. Bulma swallowed and balled her hands in their restraints. Should she say it and stop him instantly, or should she allow him to play with her like a toy?

“Open your mouth,” Vegeta said, and when she did not comply, he grasped her jaw and pried her mouth open with his thumb. He stared down into her face, and while the dim light shrouded his expression from her, Bulma knew that he was giving her a chance. She glared up at him, but said nothing.

“Good girl,” he said, and she squirmed on the table as the timbre of his voice shivered down her spine. He stepped closer, took himself in hand, and laid the tip of his cock against her lips. “Lick it,” he commanded, and a bolt of lightning shot straight through her groin.

Vegeta sucked in a breath as he felt the first touch of her tongue, warm and wet against him. His hands tangled in her hair, cupping her skull. He held her head still and pushed himself into her mouth. Out, and then deeper into her throat. One hand left the nest of her hair to find her breast, and Bulma squealed against his cock and rattled her restraints as he pinched her nipple through her bra. He let go long enough to shove the fabric cup down. His other hand released her head, allowing her to pull back a little.

Bulma breathed heavily around him, craning her neck back further so that he slid from her mouth. “Vegeta!” He had both of her nipples bare and in hand, and was tugging them upward. Bulma’s heels scrabbled and slid against the vinyl padding of the exam table. She squeezed her thighs together in a vain attempt to ease the pressure in her core. She was aching to be touched, and cursing her bound hands.

Vegeta’s cock was back at her lips and this time she opened up, taking him in greedily. She did her best to relax her throat as he pushed himself to the hilt, pulling back just as she began to think she couldn’t handle it anymore. She had a split second to breathe before he was thrusting back in, a little harder this time.

Bulma struggled to accommodate the new angle as Vegeta shifted, leaning over her prone form. She moaned gratefully at the heat of his hands on her skin as he shoved her panties halfway down her thighs. “You’re soaked,” he said, straightening up and pulling back from her throat, though not out of her mouth. Bulma wriggled on the table before him, inching her panties down her legs, lifting her hips toward him.

Vegeta pulled away, taking himself in hand again as he left her mouth. He stood before her, stroking himself, watching her writhe, revelling in it. “You want me to fuck you bad, huh?” he asked, smirking down at her, as her expression turned stormy. “Want to beg for it?”

“Fuck you.” Bulma thrashed against the restraints, chest heaving. “You’re a goddamn asshole, Vegeta,” she said, and he laughed at her.

“Yeah,” he said, tapping the tip of his dick against her cheek while she glared at him. She tried to duck away but was stopped by his other hand. “Open up.” He jammed his thumb into the corner of her mouth. “Be good and I’ll fuck you soon.” He held her head in his hands again, gripping her by the hair and supporting her neck as he pushed his cock past her lips and deep into her throat. “Relax,” he commanded, as she gagged around him. He pulled back, to let her breathe. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said, and she squealed angrily in reply, mouth too full for words.

“Vegeta,” Bulma panted, when he pulled out again. The apex of her thighs was slick and hot, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded from too long spent with her head hanging over the edge of the table. “Vegeta,” she said again, not really sure what was meant to come after. She wanted to swear a blue streak at him. She tilted her hips up, felt the quivering in her thighs and the clench of internal muscles that desperately needed to be filled.

“Last time,” Vegeta said, and it sounded like a warning. Bulma closed her lips around him again, moaning as he took her breasts in hand again and pinched her nipples, hard. Her breath was ragged through her nose, cut off with every thrust into her throat, but she quickly found her head bobbing up to meet him, voracious.

She felt him quiver against her tongue, a brief tightening before he came, flooding her mouth with heat. “Swallow,” he said, raggedly, as one of his hands moved to keep her jaw shut around his dick. The other found the back of her head, sweet pressure on her aching neck. She felt his muscles pulse with the last few spurts and gulped obediently.

He pulled out, still half hard, and Bulma watched him warily, not really sure what to expect. She was sweating, sticky against the vinyl cushioning of the exam table, though the cold air of the room had raised goosebumps along her skin. Her nipples stood, plump and hard, begging to be pinched, tugged, bitten.

Bulma had always enjoyed Vegeta’s aggression in bed, but this was new, almost punishment, and she was a little surprised by her response to it. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to be filled to bursting, split in half.

No fucking way she was telling him that.

Vegeta was breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and Bulma heard the scrunch and slide of the vinyl cushion as he gripped it tightly. He was still leaning over her, but stiffly, far from the relaxation his orgasms normally brought. Instead, he looked like he had on the mat, fighting against the circlet, against himself, for control.

He moved suddenly, heaving up her shoulders, shoving her sweat-stuck body down the table so that, at last, her head was no longer hanging. Her neck sang with relief but the rest of her remained tense as Vegeta stalked the few steps to the side of the table.

Touch me touch me touch me touch me, she thought frantically, even as she glared at him. There was a slick spot at the small of her back, where moments before her pussy had been. She’d felt her ass drag through it, and somehow the knowledge of her own depravity fueled her further. She’d drunk him down, and she wanted the favour returned.

It was aeons before he finally made his move, hopping gracefully up onto the table at her feet. She sucked in a breath as his arm brushed her bent knees, and he looked up into her flushed face, eyebrow cocked in that smug bastard expression of his.

Vegeta inhaled deeply, making a show of it, and she fought the urge to knee him in the belly. God damn saiyan noses. “I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he said, very slowly and deliberately running his hands up her calves. One at a time, he hooked her knees over his shoulders and nudged forward, lifting her ass up off the table. His knees were at her back now, forcing her lower half nearly ninety degrees from the table. Every breath over her slick flesh drove her crazy, and when he finally dipped his head to her, she could have screamed in frustration.

Vegeta knew her body nearly as well as he knew his own. They both knew that, by that point, he could have driven her over the edge in seconds. His slow, barely-there licks were meant purely to torture her. She quivered and strained with each one, but the steel bands of his arms around her legs and hips prevented her from bucking against this mouth like she wanted to.

“I know,” Vegeta said throatily, as he parted her with his fingers to expose the swollen bud of her clit to the cold air. He flicked it once, with his tongue, before drawing the area into his mouth and sucking hard, almost as though to leave a love bite. Bulma gasped and his forefinger slid in and took the place of his mouth. “It’s hard, being at someone’s mercy, isn’t it?” he asked.

“I hate you,” she spat, but the venom in her voice was swallowed as her words dissolved into a moan. “You fucking asshole,” she panted, and he gripped her jerking hips tighter, forcing her still as he bent his head to her once more.

“You’re dripping wet, vulgar girl,” he rumbled between strokes of his tongue, and she was so close to coming she could taste it. “You want it so fucking bad.”

“Fuck you,” she huffed again, and then he was licking her properly, his tongue dancing over her clit, pressing down in just the way she liked it. Stars burst behind her tightly-shut eyelids and she cried out, hips frantically jerking against the cage of his arms. “Shit!” she swore as he lapped at her pussy, shocks of pleasure still winding through her body. Her legs and abdominal muscles were trembling with fatigue, but she could feel Vegeta’s cock, hard again against her back, and she wanted more.

Vegeta walked backwards on his knees, lowering Bulma’s body back down to the table as he went. She groaned in protest as the heat of his skin left hers, but he was already sliding off the table and padding across the cold floor on bare, silent feet.

Bulma’s coveralls were draped over a chair, and she turned her head to watch him rustle through the pockets. His erection bobbed with each movement, and she felt the answering rush of heat between her own legs. “Inside breast pocket,” she said impatiently, directing him to her condom stash. “Zippered one.” The crinkle of foil packets echoed in the lab as he pulled them out. He made one more stop before coming back to her, to pull a tube of medical lubricant from a nearby cabinet.

“It’s cold,” he warned her, squeezing a dollop of jelly onto his fingers. Bulma sucked in a breath as he touched her, but the lube warmed quickly against their skin and Vegeta hummed approvingly, deep in the back of his throat, at the hot slickness before him. He ripped a packet open with his teeth and rolled a condom down over himself, one handed. He smeared the remaining lubricant over himself with the other, and enjoyed the sight of Bulma trembling on the table before him. He was on his knees between her bent legs, and with her hands still shackled she could neither touch herself, nor squeeze her thighs together to ease the pressure.

Vegeta’s chest was heaving, his fingers were sparking with the difficulty of control. He wanted to dominate, devour, to break her in two. He wanted to teach her a lesson, but he also wanted her to survive it.

He closed his eyes against Bulma’s hiss as he parted her, slid slowly inside, filled her up. He was so close to bursting that he feared just breathing wrong might undo him. Bulma cocked her hips up to meet him and he growled, grabbing her hips to force them still against the table. He stretched, bent, and claimed her mouth with his own.

Bulma reared to meet him. If she could not move her hips, she could at least take what she wanted with her tongue. Vegeta moved in her and she groaned against his lips. She’d just come but could already feel another orgasm building with each thrust, each grind of his pelvis against her. He knew her body, could play her like a fiddle, but she could do the same. Bulma tightened her muscles, squeezing his cock with every outward pull.

Vegeta pumped into her, quick, hard, and Bulma wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles at his back to tug him down hard against her. She was gasping, so close, and all she could hear was the slap of wet skin and his grunts in her ear, where he’d buried his face. She felt his teeth against the skin in the crook of her neck, that animal thing he and his fellows did to possess, to control. It spurred her forward and she bucked against him like a beast, howling her release. Vegeta tipped over the edge a moment later with a groan torn from the very pit of his lungs.

They lay together a moment, panting, sweaty, dazed, sated. Bulma mewled at the loss of heat and sudden emptiness as he pulled out and back, to kneel once more between her spread thighs. She felt boneless and raw, like she never wanted to move or think again.

Vegeta was moving across the room again, this time to dispose of the condom and clean himself up. “Gonna untie me now?” Bulma rattled her restraints as Vegeta stepped into the sweats Bulma had laid out for him so many hours ago.

“I should leave you there.”

“Sixteen will find me first thing in the morning, all naked and messed up.”

“Dickless android.” Vegeta shrugged, but reached for the buckles on the wrist restraints. Bulma sighed in relief as she stretched her arms and rubbed her wrists. Belatedly, she pulled her bra back up and her tank top down.

“So…that was interesting,” Bulma said, as she hopped down from the table. She found her panties on the floor a few feet away and pulled them on, grimacing at the cold, wet spot between her legs. “Maybe next time I can tie you up.”

“Fat chance,” Vegeta snorted, watching as she shook out her coveralls and stepped into them, bunching the top half at her back and tying the arms around her waist.

“Spoilsport,” she snapped back, and he just rolled his eyes at her. “What? I could totally dominate the shit out of you. Get me some thigh high boots and a latex corset, and you can call me Mistress Bulma.” She cocked her hips and glared, and when Vegeta simply stared back at her, she allowed her gaze to slide sideways to the circlet case on the counter, before returning lazily to his. “I could have you on the floor, begging,” she said imperiously, “with the touch of a button.”

She’d meant it to be teasing, so Bulma was unprepared for the sudden violence of his reaction. Her back thumped the wall and Vegeta’s fingers wrapped around her throat, not painfully, just hard enough so that she knew how easily he could cut off her air supply. Bulma’s eyes widened and she stared at him, mouth open in a surprised, silent O. Playtime was over.

Vegeta leaned in very close, his hard body crowding her against the wall, and she felt all the hairs on her body stand to. Vegeta’s thumb stroked up and down the side of her neck and Bulma swallowed, difficult against the pressure of his hand. “If you ever even think about putting that thing on me without my permission,” he whispered against her ear, “I will snap you like a fucking twig. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Bulma whispered, tilting her head in the barest of nods. She felt tears prickling the backs of her eyes and her throat was tight for an entirely different reason than the hand around her neck.

“Good.” Vegeta’s hand dropped and he stepped away. Bulma slid down the wall and pulled her knees to her chest, watching. She could see the tension stringing through every part of him. He was breathing deeply, hauling air into his lungs as though desperate. His fingers clenched and unclenched and Bulma could feel her skin tingling with the weight of his fluctuating ki. He was trying very hard to regain control of himself, and for the first time since she’d begun taking him to bed, she felt real, actual fear of him.

At last, Vegeta huffed and reached a hand out to her. If she grabbed hold, he’d pull her up and take her to bed. He’d wrap his strong arms around her and she’d curl against him and feel safe, instead of sick and scared.

Bulma shook her head no. She watched Vegeta’s body stiffen, saw the brief flash of agitation in his eyes before he shuttered it with his typical blank look. He turned away and strode from the infirmary without a word, and Bulma let her head fall forward to her knees. She needed time to process, to figure out what had just happened to turn him sour so suddenly. Maybe tomorrow, she could yell and scream, tear a strip off him and make him apologize. Maybe tomorrow, she could convince herself he wasn’t serious.


End file.
